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How the Gardens Grew. 


Page 11. 





HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 



SARAH M. WILLIAMSON. 


“ And what is a weed ? A plant whose virtues have not been discovered.’' 

Emerson. 



AMERICAN BAPTIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY, 
1420 Chestnut Street. 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1893, by the 
AMERICAN BAPTIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

CHAPTER I. 

A Meeting of Friends, 5 

CHAPTEK II. 

Among the Forty, 11 

CHAPTER III. 

A Great Change, 15 

CHAPTER I Y. 

Laura’s Fortune, 22 

CHAPTER Y. 

Lucy’s Aspirations, 30 

CHAPTER VI. 

Ideas, 34 

CHAPTER VII. 

The Evolution of a Weed, 41 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Clyde Desmond, , 47 

CHAPTER IX. 

Teaching a Class, 53 

CHAPTER X. 

A Primitive Specimen, 59 

CHAPTER XI 

Laura Macy, 65 

3 


4 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

CHAPTER XII. 

Han’s Home, 72 

CHAPTER XIII. 

A Chance Acquaintance, 79 

CHAPTER XIV. 

A Hew Start, 85 

CHAPTER XV. 

Some of John Dale’s Work, 92 

CHAPTER XVI. 

A Little Leaven, 99 

CHAPTER XVII. 

A Discovery, 105 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

A Busy Sunday, . . 112 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Dr. Thorne Visits John, 118 

CHAPTER XX. 

Teddy’s Flight, 123 

CHAPTER XXI. 

In Mr. Rathbone’s Sanctum , 129 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Laura’s Christmas Gift, 137 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

At Fern Ridge, 144 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Teddy Meets Santa Claus, 150 

CHAPTER XXV. 

Approaching Fruition, 157 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

Blossoming Time, 167 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


CHAPTER 1. 


A MEETING OF FRIENDS. 


Have a purpose in life, and having it, throw into your work such 


strength of mind and muscle as God has given you. — Carlyle. 
ICHARD MORRISON felt in a particularly good 



Tv mood. These exalted moments came to him oc- 
casionally, and had a most invigorating influence upon 
his mind. His four years at Brown, and a subsequent 
term at a theological seminary in Illinois, had ended a 
fortnight previously in his ordination as a minister of the 
gospel. He was a young man, only twenty-five years 
of age, and as yet none of his ideals had been shattered. 
Some of these he was turning over in his mind when 3 
cheerful voice broke in upon his revery : 

“ Where away, Dick ? ’ ’ 

He turned around, not knowing at first whether to, 
feel annoyed or pleased at the interruption. His face 
cleared when he saw who had accosted him. 

“ Ah, Desmond, how are you ? ” Their hands met in 
the cordial, strong clasp of men who have no doubts 
about each other’s acquaintance and liking. A separa- 


5 


6 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


tion of some years having intervened since their college 
friendship was cemented, doubtless added warmth to the 
pressure. 

“By your leave, Morrison, I’ll come over and make 
you keep me company.” 

“ ‘ Barkis is willin’,’ ” returned the other, as he placed 
his valise on the floor at his feet, and gave up the other 
half of the seat to his friend. 

“Let me look at you awhile,” said the new-comer. 
After a kindly, yet thorough glance, that took in the 
young clergyman from his crisp, brown hair and dark 
eyes to his trim attire and clerical tie, he added : 

“No change in you, I see, Dick, — still Le bon homrne 
Richard.” 

“And you are still the same merry Clyde,” returned 
his friend. “ How curious it seems that we should meet 
to-day on this train.” 

“ Why more curious on this train than another? ” 

“ Well, because it was rather against my will that I 
am here at all. Some friends persuaded me. I am glad 
enough now, for there is nobody I should have been 
happier to fall in with than yourself.” 

“ Ditto, my dear boy. And now tell me where you 
have been keeping yourself all these years — what you are 
doing, etc., etc. I am sure of one thing,” again glanc- 
ing at the other’s clerical attire, “ I am surely right in 
fancying you the Reverend Richard Morrison, pastor of 
— what church ? ’ ’ 

The Reverend Mr. Morrison blushed. He possessed 


A MEETING OF FRIENDS. 


7 


a fair complexion, easily colored, and was still enough 
of a boy in spite of his quarter of a century to be bashful 
in reference to his new dignity. His companion was 
soon put in full possession of his history since their part- 
ing. Part of this we know. 

“I am called now,” he concluded, “ to the city as 
assistant pastor of the First Church. My duties will 
chiefly be with the missions connected with the church. 
There are several of them, one in particular established 
by a young artist who is interested in such things, hav- 
ing a large attendance from the denizens of the south 
side of the city. I have not yet visited the scenes of my 
labors, but all this was told me by my friends yesterday 
in town. Desmond, you don’t know the amount of 
enthusiasm I feel in regard to entering this field. I can’t 
express it. While in the East, the 1 slumming ’ craze 
was at its height and I was drawn right into it. Don’t 
you think this line of work can be pursued out here ? ” 

The other deliberated a moment before replying. 

“You won’t find the grinding poverty out here that 
prevails in the East. Those found subject to it are 
mainly individual cases. The masses of the lower classes, 
as a rule, have at least enough to eat and wear.” 

“ But ignorance? ” 

“With the public schools in easy reach, they can’t be 
wholly ignorant of mere book learning.” 

“That isn’t what I mean. There are more things 
than reading and writing of which one may be igno- 
rant.” 


8 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


This discussion, upon a topic which to both was of 
the closest interest, might have been interminably pro- 
longed, but a young man entered the car, and tapping 
Clyde upon the shoulder, said : 

“ I leave you here, Desmond. I am sorry I could not 
have seen more of you to-day, but you will be in town 
to-morrow, will you not ? ’ ’ 

There was no time for more than an . affirmative nod 
from Clyde before the other got off at the station and 
the train again started. 

“ That youth looked as if he had a history,” observed 
Morrison. 

“ He has. I’ll tell it to you sometime. A noisy train 
is not exactly fitted for the recital of a confidential 
story. ’ ’ 

“ What is his name? ” 

“ Dale — John Dale.” 

At the next station, Mr. Morrison seized his valise and 
arose. Desmond rose also. “ Get out here? So do I.” 

They stepped off the train and, without waiting for a 
cab, took their way along the road leading up the hill. 
It was here that Clyde related the story of the young man 
on the train whose face had taken such a hold upon the 
minister’s mind. By the time it was finished, the two 
had reached a point in their journey where they decided 
to stop and rest for a brief space. It was a lovely spot. 
In the foreground were the endless hills ; in the back- 
ground, hills again, surmounted by gigantic trees ; above 
all, the cloudless sky 


A MEETING OF FRIEND: 


9 


“This is my favorite sketching place,” observed 
Desmond. 

“Yes? I have heard of you, Clyde. Somebody is 
growing famous.” 

“ Newspaper talk, all of it.” 

“ Some basis for it, surely. You must show me your 
studio some day, Clyde. Don’t you know, old fellow 
the boys never could fathom your reasons for leaving 
college. Then we heard of your going abroad, and 
your later return, setting up a studio in this town.” 

“My uncle failed,” said Clyde, briefly. He was al- 
ways loath to speak of that period in his life. 

“ But I always understood that your father had left you 
money quite independently of that you had from your 
uncle.” Morrison did not intend to force the other’s 
confidences. He was simply interested in all relating to 
his friend. 

“ It was all in the same ‘spec.’ When one went un- 
der, the whole was lost. The poor old man was awfully 
cut up about it, and only survived his failure a few months. 
I had to do something for myself, of course. The only 
talent I had, you know, was drawing and painting. At 
first I did illustrating for the papers. That gave me the 
opportunity of going abroad. That is all. You know 
the rest. ’ ’ 

They tramped on a few paces in silence. Then Clyde 
spoke : 

“I must leave you here, I suppose,” he said. “But 
before we part, might I ask your object — or that of any 


10 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


respectable clergyman — in coming to this outlandish sec- 
tion of our country ? A pleasure jaunt, or a search for 
parishioners ? * ’ 

Morrison laughed. 

“I scarcely know how it came about,” he said. “I 
have some friends in town whose daughter attends that 
seminary whose walls you see a short distance ahead. 
To-day is Commencement Day, and she reads the vale- 
dictory, or some essay — I am not quite sure what it is. 
Her father’s business precluded his presence, and the 
illness of her little brother prevented the mother’s com- 
ing. I was there at dinner last evening, and Mr. Rath- 
bone asked me to go over, take in the affair, and let the 
folks at home know just how Lucy got along.” 

“ How would it be to take me with you ? ” 

“ You’re quizzing, aren’t you ? Could anybody in his 
sober senses stand the ‘sweet girl graduate,’ the blue-rib- 
boned essays, the piano solos, etc. ? If so, come.” 

“ Will it be in order ? ” 

“ Oh, yes. The principal is a cousin of mine ; and, 
taking it for granted that your character is the same as in 
our college days, I’ll guarantee you.” 

“ So be it.” 


CHAPTER II. 


AMONG THE FORTY. 


You may upset a man’s reasonings, . . . but a brave Christian life 
you can’t upset, it will tell. — Harriet Beecher Stowe. 

HE advent of two good-looking young strangers, 



T both of a rather distingue appearance, in the hall 
where the commencement exercises were holding, you 
may be sure caused quite a flutter within the hearts of 
most of the younger portion of the gathering. Their 
having walked so slowly, lingering upon the way, caused 
them to be late, and the programme was well under way 
when Richard and Clyde entered the hall. All the seats 
were taken, but they did not mind standing. Indeed, 
the former took speedy occasion to whisper: “We can 
get out quite easily, can’t we? It is not likely that 
we will care to see the whole thing through.” 

By the aid of his recollections, and of a photograph 
shown him the previous day, Mr. Morrison soon singled 
out the maiden whose efforts in the declamation line he 
was bound to notice. Many a time, however, his gaze 
wandered to a stately, blue-eyed young woman who at 
the moment of his entrance had just risen to read her 
essay. After hearing the title, nothing out of the 
common to the ex-collegian’s ears, being nothing more 
or less than “Ambition,” he had resigned himself to the 


11 


12 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


penance, and only hoped it would not be a long one. 
After the first few lines he was compelled to abandon his 
bored position, and listened with undisguised interest to 
the essay, which was by no means of the stereotyped 
order ridiculed by so many critical writers, but was a 
simple, earnest address, seemingly coming direct from 
the author’s soul. The false motives of those who fancy 
they understand the real inwardness of a lofty ambition 
were laid bare. Scott puts into the mouth of one of his 
feminine creations these words : “Avarice is ambition’s 
bastard brother, though ambition be sometimes ashamed 
of the relationship.” The fair essayist, to whom the 
large audience gave such close attention, appeared to take 
this idea as the keynote of certain of her remarks, show- 
ing how many other base and ignoble relatives were 
allied to ambition. Then she gave a different side to the 
picture, pointing out the way in which one might aspire 
to holier objects than those which are thought of by the 
majority of men, — humanity, its needs, and the pure 
Model one has to look up to as the source of the highest 
ambition of all. The applause that followed the 
speaker’s peroration was not a mere empty hand-clap- 
ping. Even the most dull auditor seemed to have had a 
glimpse of the essayist’s meaning. 

“That was good,” whispered Morrison to Clyde, 
when the applause had ceased and the graduate had taken 
her seat. 

“Yes, very,” absently returned the other. “Say, 
Morrison, have you any idea who that sweet creature 


AMONG THE FORTY. 


13 


is in white? I have often seen her at church, but don’t 
know her name. There ! She is going to give us a 
selection from Beethoven.” 

“That? Why, old fellow, don’t you know Lucy 
Rathbone? I must take notes now, with eyes and ears, 
for her parents’ benefit.” 

It was a pretty fair proof that the commencement 
exercises at Miss Worthington’s “seminary” were 
unusually good, that two young men, prejudiced before- 
hand in regard to the affair, should have concluded to 
remain, and that in the uncomfortable position of stand- 
ing without anything to lean against through the entire 
programme. Desmond’s artistic faculty had been 
aroused by the different types of beauty he found among 
the graduates. Morrison was interested in the essays, 
every one of which gave evidence that the author was 
possessed of not merely a brilliant faculty of composing 
sentences to please the ear, but that the thoughts 
expressed were her own and must have come from a 
thinking mind, a feeling soul. To show how this came 
about — this difference from an ordinary finishing school 
for young ladies — one must know something of the 
character of its founder. 

Miss Worthington was a most enlightened woman, a 
thorough Christian in word and deed, and considered 
the guardianship of the forty lively girls placed in her 
charge as a sacred trust. She never frowned too sternly 
upon girlish pranks, thereby urging the perpetrators to 
deceit and falsehood, as is the manner of many precep- 


14 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


tors in boarding schools. She reasoned with them 
kindly and in private, a manner of remonstrating which 
had never yet failed to accomplish its object, and besides 
saved the victim a public disgrace. There is no more 
pernicious place in existence, perhaps, than a boarding 
school, for girls whose minds are weak and whose ideas 
of right and wrong are easily bewildered. One girl 
with loose ideas of morality can do more harm in a day 
than ten good girls can reform in a week. Miss Worth- 
ington was well aware of this, but while keeping up 
the closest surveillance, she never did anything that 
might be regarded as underhanded or mean, and the 
girls thoroughly understood her kind thought for their 
welfare. There was nothing in the least repellent 
about her methods. She herself possessed a profound 
depth of humor, and believed merriment in the young 
heart to be a gift of nature to be guided, and not, as a 
sterner teacher would have preached, to be crushed as 
a thing of little value. The girls, to the fortieth, adored 
her, and drank in her teachings with even more avidity 
than they imagined. 

A good teacher in one’s youth has more to do than 
one fancies with the success of his after life. Miss 
Worthington’s pupils had a worthy model ever before 
them, — their principal’s ideal Christian life. 


CHAPTER III. 


A GREAT CHANGE. 

Then wisely weigh 

Our sorrow with our comfort. — Shakespeare. 

U ^\T7HEN shall we three meet again, in lightning, 
VV thunder, or in rain?” So quoted, in a chant- 
ing tone, Laura Macy. Then she added : “I hope not 
the last; else I’d be a sorry sight. Nothing puts my 
wretched hair out of curl like rain or fog.” 

“ I don’t see how you ever manage to wear bangs in 
town,” observed one of her companions. “Or live 
there, either.” 

“I don’t — when I can help it,” returned Laura. 
“ ‘ Crags ’ is good enough for me. Remember, girls, I ex- 
pect both of you to put in an appearance at my palatial 
country home, this summer.” 

Commencement was over. Those of the girls who 
had friends and relatives to greet hastened to do so, and 
to give them more substantial refreshment in the way of 
an appetizing lunch. It was always Miss Worthington’s 
custom to end up the yearly exercises in this pleasing 
manner. A fit of that unpleasant shyness had come over 
Dick Morrison when the opportunity occurred for him to 
renew acquaintance with Miss Rathbone. Therefore, 

15 


16 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


after a few words with his cousin, Miss Worthington, he 
drew the unwilling Clyde away trainward. 

Certain of the forty inmates of the seminary, who had 
such important details to look after as packing and clean- 
ing up their rooms, shirked lunch aud adjourned to the 
dormitories. Among them were Laura Macy, Lucy 
Rathbone, and Nan Dallas — the object of their withdrawal 
being a farewell chat. These tKree girls were insepara- 
bles. Their comrades dubbed them “ The Sandwich.” 
Laura and Nan standing for the bread, Lucy for the del- 
icate slice of ham — no one knows why, save the invete- 
rate propensity of schoolgirls to bestow nicknames. 

Laura was a Beauty, like Tommy Traddles’ sister-in- 
law — spelled with a big B ; tall, fair, and dignified. 
Lucy was a petite, hazel-eyed creature, and a merry little 
elf, full of harmless mischief. Nan was taller than Laura, 
slender enough to be termed thin, and dark as a gypsy. 
Her mates sometimes styled her a saint, sometimes a dar- 
ling, just as the mood happened to strike them. An- 
other tie than that of a mere school friendship had lately 
bound the trio in closer bonds. The previous Sunday 
they, with about half of their companions, had made a 
public confession of faith, being baptized at the little 
country church where the school attended in a body every 
week. Miss Worthington, who had labored for this re- 
sult with prayer and earnest counsels, had felt greatly 
encouraged, and was stimulated, as all are, by such 
fruitage. 

It may seem somewhat curious that three girls, of the 


A GREAT CHANGE. 


17 


ages of nineteen or thereabouts, should have lived to such 
an age, within continual reach of Christian instruction, 
without heretofore having thought at all seriously about 
these matters. But Laura, who was an orphan, had always 
lived at boarding schools, where religion, given in a per- 
functory way, for the most part, displayed its least inviting 
aspect. Only the previous year, her guardian had sent 
her to be “ finished ” at Miss Worthington’s, before tak- 
ing her proper place in society as a “bud,” and with 
her manifold attractions of beauty, culture, and wealth, 
necessarily a belle. 

Lucy had always been an attendant at Sunday-school 
and church ; but it seemed to her that until coming to 
this school she had only been taught the morality of re- 
ligion ; never its beauty and necessity. Nan was a home 
missionary’s daughter, full of liveliness and fun, but who 
having seen much hardship during her short life, thor- 
oughly understood the meaning of poverty and self-de- 
nial. A wealthy aunt had given her this opportunity for 
self-advancement and education ; and as Nan expected 
to earn her living by teaching — should it ever happen 
that she should be thrown defenseless on the world — the 
chance was eagerly seized upon. Mr. Dallas was not 
one who believed in forcing youthful inclinations, nor 
in bringing unwilling converts to the throne of heaven. 
In all his children he implanted a love of truth, a high 
sense of honor, and left the rest to God. In a passive 
manner Nan had absorbed her father’s sermons ; but they 
had passed by, making little impression upon her mind, 
B 


18 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


and not reaching her heart at all. Even Miss Worthing- 
ton’s words aroused in her no desire to become a follower 
of Christ. All at once, during a revival at the country 
church, she, with many others of her companions, was 
brought to feel the need of a personal religion — heart, 
mind, and spirit drinking in the beautiful truths. 

In many cases, converts brought to God during reviv- 
als prove but fitful Christians. The excitement over, 
oftentimes they relapse into their old petty frailties and 
sins — faults too deep, they fancy, but possibly too dear 
to tHeir owners, to be eradicated even by the grace and 
life of Christ. It was as yet too early for Miss Worth- 
ington to note the change in those of her charges who 
had come forward in the new character of Christian sol- 
diers. A pity was that it was so near the close of the 
school term. If with her wise and strengthening coun- 
sellings holding them to the right course any could be 
tempted to fall backward, how much harder would it be 
for those receiving little or no help at home. 

Of our three friends, Laura Macy might be expected to 
be subjected to the greatest trials. As she spoke the gay 
words recorded at the beginning of this chapter, tears 
bedimmed her beautiful eyes. 

“You must come, girls,” she repeated. “ How am I 
ever to get along without you ? ’ ’ 

Nan lovingly put her arm around her neck. 

“ My dear girl,” she said, “ we’re all in the same boat, 
you know. I am sure I don’t know what Lucy and I are 
to do without you. Think of me, ’way up in my eyrie. 


A GREAT CHANGE. 


19 

Uncle Sam is sorry comfort when we think of the jolly 
chats we might be having.” 

Then broke in the merry voice of Lucy Rathbone. 

“ This isn’t a funeral, is it, girls ? And are any of us 
going away to be dead and buried at once? Don’t we 
all reside within the precincts of one single, solitary 
State ? Have steamboats and railroads been abolished ? ’ ’ 

The others could not help laughing at her nonsense. 
Besides, such philosophy was too apparent to be easily 
swept aside. Women’s conversation always leaps “ from 
grave to gay, from lively to severe,” with the ease of 
practiced hands at the art. Laura’s tears vanished at 
once. 

“Wasn’t that a handsome young man who came in 
while Laura was reading her essay ? ’ ’ said Nan. 

“ Which ? ” asked Lucy, a roguish smile dimpling the 
corners of her rosebud mouth. 

< “Both.” 

“ Contrary to all rules of grammar and construction 
of sentences,” exclaimed Laura. “ I think the black- 
eyed one, with the fair complexion, had the finer ex- 
pression.” 

“ Do you ? ” asked Lucy. “ Well, what will you give 
me if I promise you an introduction inside of a week? ” 

Both girls pounced upon her at once, calling her a base 
deceiver. When she considered them sufficiently teased, 
Lucy explained herself. 

“The one you liked, Laura, was Dick Morrison.” 

“ Your clerical friend ? ” 


20 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


“ Yes — or, rather, he wasn’t clerical when I knew him. 
He has been East a number of years, but I recognized 
him at once. He is going to be assistant pastor at our 
church now.” 

“ Then I know what I am going to do,” said Laura. 
“ I love young ministers — they are always so full of zeal. 
So I am coming to your church.” 

“ How lovely ! ” 

“ You know I never cared much for the church Mr. 
Murdock attends, and poor papa seldom went to church 
at all. I’ll join yours.” 

“ I wish I could too,” observed Nan. “ But my work 
lies elsewhere. There are lots of things I must do at 
Fern Ridge. Papa counts upon my co-operation in 
everything. ’ ’ 

“ I envy you, Nan,” said Laura. “Your work cut 
out for you, and no puzzling questions about society 
and anything else to come between your duty and your 
inclinations.” 

“ But just think of the good you can do, Laura; what 
a power your money will be ; what loads of misery you 
can relieve.” 

“ That’s just what I dread. A poor girl has less temp- 
tation.” 

“ Perhaps so,” returned Nan. “ Some say otherwise. 
For my part, I would think that the blessings wealth may 
confer upon others would counteract in every way its 
temptations. I don’t know, of course, because we have 
always been poor. ’ ’ 


A GREAT CHANGE. 


21 


“ Not so poor as I am to-day,” replied Laura. “To 
me, a mother and father would compensate for any lack 
of money.” 

Nan pressed her hand, and Lucy gave her a sympa- 
thizing kiss. Neither would have exchanged her happy 
home for all the other’s beauty and wealth. 


CHAPTER IV. 


LAURA S FORTUNE, 


We are wrong always when we think too much 
Of what we think or are : albeit our thoughts 
Be verily bitter as self-sacrifice, 

We’re no less selfish. — Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
AN returned to her home in the Sierras, Lucy and 



1 * Laura to the city. At the train Lucy was met by 
her father, and Laura entering the carriage awaiting her 
was driven to her guardian’s home. Mr. Murdock was 
the lawyer who had taken charge of her fortune ever 
since her father’s death. He was a rather crusty old 
bachelor and was himself looked after by a venerable 
housekeeper in an even more venerable house. Upon 
Laura’s arrival, Mrs. Brown received her and persuaded 
her to drink a cup of tea while awaiting Mr. Murdock’s 
return from his office. 

“ Have you any idea why Mr. Murdock desired me to 
come to him, instead of going at once to ‘Crags’?” 
asked Laura. 

“He didn’t say anything to me,” answered Mrs. 
Brown. “ ‘ Crags ’ is all ready for you, though. I was 
there myself last week to see that everything was 
aired.” 

“ That was kind of you, Mrs. Brown. I suppose 


22 




LAURA'S fortune. 


23 


Jennie is rather too young to take care of such an 
immense place.” 

“Yes, ma’am, that’s what I told Mr. Murdock; but 
he said as Jennie married Ned and Ned was the gardener, 
she might as well be housekeeper too ; so he sent away 
Mrs. Lewis, though I must say he got her another place 
even better, if that could be ; and now Jennie does her 
best, of course, seeing she’s so young ” 

Mrs. Brown’s garrulity might have been still going on 
had not her employer entered and checked the stream 
of eloquence at its fullest flow. He was glad, if not 
demonstratively so, to see his young ward. 

“You were prompt, Laura,” he observed. “That is 
not a quality usually observable in young women.” 

“You wished me to be here to-day, and I came,” 
answered Laura. “ There was nothing unusual in that. 
I believe you had something to communicate.” 

“Yes, yes, I know,” said the lawyer, nervously, 
rubbing the palms of his hands together. “ But there 
is no hurry. It will keep until after dinner.” 

Therefore Laura put aside her growing impatience and 
answered his questions about the school she had just left, 
her companions and future plans, until six o’clock came 
and with it dinner. The meal was prolonged. It 
almost seemed as if Mr. Murdock had some hated task 
before him, he lingered so long over his dessert. Finally 
he arose, there being no longer any pretext for de- 
laying the communication Laura was so eagerly looking 
for and so anxious to receive. 


24 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


“ Come into the library, Laura,” he said. Did Laura 
imagine it, or was there a repressed sob in his voice ! 

“We won’t have the gas yet,” said her guardian. 
“ That is, if you don’t mind.” Laura at once assented, 
and Mr. Murdock seating himself in his easy-chair, she 
placed herself upon a stool at his feet. 

“Before I say anything else, Laura,” he began, “I 
want to tell you that what I have done has been entirely 
for your good, — at least, what I believed was for your 
good. If you are disposed to blame me, think of that. 
I meant it for the best. If it may seem that what you 
may learn speedily now should have been told you earlier, 
remember that it was solicitude for you alone which kept 
it from you.” 

Laura bowed her head, wondering, with a sort of faint 
feeling at her heart, what was coming next. 

“ You know, my dear, that your mother died at your 
birth — that was nineteen years ago. Your father died 
ten years later. He thought the world of you, and 
though during his last severe illness his sufferings were so 
painful that death would have been a welcome release, 
he prayed to live that he might still be with you. You 
were not even then so young but what you may still 
remember him.” A few tears fell upon the hand Laura 
held in her own. “ He was a good man. If he had 
sinned in his youth” — Laura gave a slight start — “his 
whole life atoned for the error. When he was dying he 
gave me this letter for you, which I promised to give you 
upon your sixteenth birthday.’ 


laura’s fortune. 


25 


“ Sixteenth? I am nineteen, now.” 

“Yes, my dear, and that is what I must ask you to 
forgive me. I could not bear to put a shadow upon your 
life then. It was so bright that I determined so far as 
that was concerned it should remain so, at least during 
all your school-days. It should remain so still if it lay 
with me. But I must fulfill my trust.” 

“ There can be no shadows cast upon my father’s 
memory,” Laura said in reply. Then as she noticed 
the kind, yet sad expression upon her guardian’s 
face, she added : “ Do you know the letter’s con- 

tents ? ’ ’ 

He nodded, then turned and left her alone in the 
room. 

Laura did not open the letter at once. She looked 
at the superscription, 

“To my Daughter Laura,” 

in her father’s well-known handwriting. She had been 
only ten years of age when he died, a little girl just 
beginning to take an interest in something besides dolls 
and toys. In her father’s journeys he had always made 
her his companion, and they had been so happy together. 
Then had come his terrible illness and subsequent death. 
She could remember it all so distinctly. In all her 
knowledge of her father she had never known him guilty 
of a mean or dishonorable act. She wondered what the 
letter contained, the letter that was a voice from the 
dead Somehow, remembering Mr. Murdock’s words, 


26 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


she hated to open it. He had said “sinned.” Sin in 
connection with Paxton Macy was not in her mind to be 
thought of for a moment. Sin ? Why, that meant lying, 
stealing, murdering ! None of these were possibilities 
where the name Macy was concerned. 

Then she opened the letter. 

She sat looking at it for a moment with dimmed, 
uncertain eyes, and then read : 

Crags, November, 18 — 

My Darling Laura : When you read this your father 
will be but a memory to you. I wish it could be that 
after you have heard me you will still love and respect 
the writer. But I cannot hope that. 

There are no* extenuating circumstances. Laura, your 
father is a thief. I robbed a man who trusted me as a 
father would his son. In my young days my principles 
were never very firm. Temptation came, and I made no 
effort to resist it. 

You know how I came out here in early times. Well, 
among those I met was a man who had had a singular 
experience. He had left his family — a wife and son — in 
New York, worked his way out here, and without a 
nickel in his pocket had gone to work. Every one of 
his ventures was crowned with success. When I met 
him he had amassed a large fortune, and was thinking 
of returning East to bring out his wife and son. He 
took quite a fancy to me and invited me to share his 
lodging. I agreed at once, and he made a confidant of 
me in regard to all his affairs. When he prepared to 
take the steamer to New York, he gave me a tin box to 
hold for him until his return. 


laijra’s fortune. 


27 


“We might be wrecked,” he said. “And in my 
absence banks may fail; so I have had everything I 
possess put into securities about which I have no doubt, 
and you must take care of this for me. I only take 
enough money with me to defray my expenses both 
ways. ’ ’ 

See what trust he had in me ! At first I had no 
thought of betraying it, but as time went on and no news 
came from him, I began to wish the contents of the box 
were my own. Wishes brought other thoughts. Nobody 
knew I had it. My friend was a quiet man, had made 
few acquaintances, and I was the only one with whom he 
had been in the least intimate. No one but myself knew 
even the extent of his wealth. 

Some months went by. News came of the safe arrival 
of the steamer from the round trip. I went down and 
questioned the captain regarding the outbound voyage. 
Among the news items he gave me was one regarding 
the death of a passenger at sea when they were nearly 
in sight of New York. The man was the owner of the 
tin box that I had. 

You easily understand the result. I kept the box and 
never made the slightest attempt to find its owners. 
From remarks made by my former room-mate, I knew 
his family had no idea of his having wealth to bestow. 
He had meant to surprise them. 

Why do I tell you this ? Laura, I lay upon you the 
duty of discovering the man’s heirs, if any still live, and 
making restitution. You have a different nature from 
mine — where I was weak, you will be strong. 

Do this and accept the blessing of 

Your repentant father, 

Paxton Macy. 


28 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


The letter fell from the girl’s hands. This, then, was 
what it was to be an heiress ! She had always before felt 
that her wealth was a blessing. It had turned into a 
curse. She could not weep, her heart felt so stony. 
She was rent by conflicting emotions. She had always 
reverenced her father. And now — what could she do ? 
The door opened and her guardian entered. A sight of 
his face made her hide her face in her hands. Mr. 
Murdock put his arm around her and drew her toward 
him. He was an old man and knew how to soothe a 
proud nature like Laura’s. 

“You know now,” he said, softly. “And I knew it 
before he died. God forgave him. Can his daughter 
do less ? ’ ’ 

Laura’s tears fell then. 

“It isn’t the money,” she sobbed, “but the trust. 
And we can’t restore those lost years. They may have 
died in poverty.” 

Mr. Murdock understood her reference. “ They were 
in their Father’s care,” he said. “We may be sure of 
that.” 

Laura’s face cleared. 

“We will find them,” she said. Then came a blank 
look. “ I don’t know their names.” 

“Well, that ends it, then,” returned her guardian. 
“No need of looking for them at all.” 

Laura sprang from him indignantly. “ Don’t try to 
tempt me,” she cried. Then, catching sight of his 
expression, she flung her arms around his neck. 


lauba’s fortune. 


29 


“ Forgive me, Uncle Murdock, but don’t tease me 
about this. It is too serious. 

“ Very well, my dear. We will wait until to-morrow 
and then we will make our plans as to how we must go 
to work. Your father trusted me with the man’s name. 
It was John Walton.” 


CHAPTER V. 


lucy’s aspirations. 

We can finish nothing in this life, but we may make a beginning 
and bequeath a noble example. — S miles. 

u T UCY thinks of starting in to reform the world.” 

L' Mrs. Rathbone made this observation to her 
husband at the dinner table. He looked surprised, and 
so did the subject of the remark. Lucy at the moment 
had a far-away look in her eyes, as if she was thinking 
of something quite remote from the consommt she was 
discussing. Her mother’s remark startled, and in a way 
embarrassed her. One hates to have personal remarks 
made about him before others, especially at meal times. 

Lucy Rathbone, as we know, had just returned from 
boarding school, her mind and heart consecrated to 
God’s service, and filled with questions about social 
reforms, humanity’s wrongs, and other agitating subjects 
of a kindred nature. That very morning she had started 
in to- tell her mother some of the thoughts teeming in 
her busy brain. Her mother had not known what to 
make of it all. She herself had been brought up in the 
old-fashioned way; had gone through her “ Ollendorf,” 
and dutifully waded through “ Telemaque”; had practised, 
her scales and learned to execute “ Silvery Waves ” and 
“The Maiden’s Trayer” on the piano without making 
30 


LUCY S ASPIRATIONS. 


31 


any palpable blunders, and had managed many other 
such harmless accomplishments. Her ideas, like her 
religion, she had taken from, her teachers, and never 
thought of looking'deeply into anything. Upon leaving 
school, she went into society for a time, at the age of 
twenty marrying Mr. Rathbone. Her twenty years of 
married life had not widened her mind to any great 
extent. The few societies, clerical and otherwise, she 
had felt it incumbent upon her to join, called more for 
good sewing qualities than any others. In these she was, 
as in all household matters, an adept. 

Mr. Rathbone was different. He was interested in 
the class of subjects that engrossed his daughter’s mind, 
but being at present very busy in making money, he 
could not devote much thought to them. From Saturday 
noon — he was a banker — until Monday morning he let 
his mind run on other matters, but at other times he was 
engrossed in business cares. He was one of the pillars 
of the First Church, therefore on Sundays he conscien- 
tiously strove to refrain from thoughts of dollars and 
dollar-making. 

The Rathbones had two children besides Lucy, lads 
of ten and fourteen years, Lawrence and Charlie, who 
were the plagues, and at the same time the pets, of the 
entire family, as boys usually are. Lucy was the odd 
one, the nightingale in this commonplace nest of robins, 
but she would have been unsatisfied did she not look 
forward to bringing the others up to her altitude. 

The Rathbones were all professed Christians. In 


32 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


making their acquaintance, you may detect a certain 
variation in their way of carrying out the gospel’s dic- 
tates. 

Lucy’s relatives have thus been all introduced to the 
reader. Her home was the ordinary abode of moderately 
rich and cultured Californians. Polished floors, warm 
rugs, and high art tendencies in the decorations, all 
contributed to the rooms’ attractiveness. The family 
was so accustomed to having everything beautiful and 
comfortable that it never occurred to any of them that 
others, perhaps, might lack the same comforts and beau- 
ties. Of course, they read about cases of destitution in 
the daily papers, but they seemed like fairy tales. 

“Really, something ought to be done about this,” 
Mr. Rathbone would say. 

“And I think the associated charities should do more 
to relieve distress than they do,” his wife would ob- 
serve. 

It never occurred to either of them that they might 
look into the matter themselves. It was none of their 
business, which is the world’s interpretation of the 
Golden Rule. 

Lucy came home with her mind and heart awake to 
the fact that misery might be alleviated among suffering 
humanity, and that she was responsible for a certain 
amount of this alleviation. “ Inasmuch ” she and Laura 
and Nan had taken as their motto, and immediately 
Lucy prepared to make a confidante of her mother. To 
her surprise, her mother did not fall in with her plans, 


i.ucy’s aspirations. 


33 


and even made a sarcastic remark to her father with 
reference to them. 

Mrs. Rathbone did not plan to be intentionally unkind. 
She had been glad when Lucy told her that she was now 
a Christian, but she could not comprehend why her 
daughter wanted to go to work so desperately at once, 
instead of resting awhile, now it was vacation. She had 
never been so excited over anything, if she remembered 
rightly. Why should Lucy be so? All these ideas 
coming so closely upon her had made it necessary, she 
felt, to speak to Mr. Rathbone. Therefore the words 
that opened the chapter. They hurt Lucy’s feelings; 
if her father had laughed then, she would have cried. 
But he did not. 

“ Come, Lucy,” he said, “a nickel for your thoughts. 
Tell me what great scheme is forming in that brain of 
yours. ’ ’ 

“ Not now, papa,” she answered. “I’ll tell you after 
a little,” again devoting her attention to her neglected 
soup. 


c 


CHAPTER VI. 


IDEAS, 


Be not simply good; be good for something. — T horeau. 
FTER dinner they gathered in the library. It was 



■IL Saturday night, hence Mr. Rathbone could devote 
himself to his family without confusing thoughts of 
dollars intruding into his mind. 

“This is it, papa,” Lucy began. “You see, I was 
just thinking how much had been given to me and how 
little to so many others. Here I am, eighteen ye^rs old, 
thoroughly healthy, with plenty of money, a nice home, 
kind parents, two darling brothers ” 

“Thank you, sis,” from the boys. 

“Lots of time, besides all the pleasure I extract from 
music and painting. Now, all I do in return for these 
blessings is just nothing at all.” 

“You can please your mother and myself by being 
affectionate and looking as pretty as you know how,” 
said her father, mischievously pinching her cheek. 

“Now, don’t turn it into a joke,” pleaded Lucy. 
“Nan and I used to talk it over at school. She has a 
great work to do, you know.” 

“What is that? ” 

“ Why, the people up where she lives, in the Sierras, 
are awfully ignorant. Before her father went there, 


34 


IDEAS. 


35 


there were many who had never heard of the Bible even. 
And all they did was to work, work all the time. Such 
a groveling life to lead ! Mr. Dallas had to begin cau- 
tiously for a while — get ideas into their minds one by 
one, you know. They had no conception of taking 
things easy or putting any pleasure into their lives. 
Hope in a happier future they had none. Mr. Dallas 
began by teaching the children. He knew there was no 
use in trying to establish a church at once, but he gath- 
ered the little ones into his home. He and Mrs. Dallas 
taught them games at first, after the kindergarten method, 
then that brought a desire for knowledge. After a while 
the parents came too, and Mr. Dallas used to talk to 
them, finally making them feel the need of a personal 
religion. You have read Walter Besant’s ‘ All Sorts and 
Conditions of Men,’ have you not, papa? Well, it was 
like that, somewhat. They have a church now. Nan 
says it is a rough sort of a building, but every board in 
it is redolent with love to God.” 

“And what part is your Nan to take in all this 
reformation?” asked Mr. Rathbone. 

“ Oh, Nan will do everything. She can teach, and 
sing, and recite. I don’t know, I’m sure, what she can’t 
do. And there is Laura Macy.” 

“ What about her? ” 

Mrs. Rathbone was interested now. She had heard 
of the young heiress, not only from Lucy, but from the 
society papers, which considered Miss Macy an absorbing 
theme of never-failing interest to their readers. 


36 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


“ Laura and Nan were both baptized when I was, you 
know, mamma. Laura is her own mistress and will lay 
out her immense fortune to the best uses. She takes the 
greatest interest in the working-girl problem, and intends 
to investigate all its evils and see what she can do to aid 
in reforming the system. ’ ’ 

“These girls go quite beyond me,” sighed Lucy’s 
mother. “ I thought Miss Macy’s thoughts, now she has 
graduated from school, would be fixed upon her ‘ coming 
out.’ It was so in my time.” 

“ Why, mamma, Laura does think of that. Her father 
always told her he wished her to see the world a little 
when she became of age. She doesn’t put such things 
first, that is all.” 

“Both Laura and Nan must be perfect prodigies,” 
observed Mr. Rathbone, smilingly; “and Lucy is a 
regular heroine worshiper.” 

Lucy blushed. “ Don’t laugh, please, papa,” she said. 
“ If you knew them, you would call them, as I do, per- 
fect ” 

An interruption here occurred, when the servant 
ushered into the room a young man, who seemingly 
knew everbody very well, so quickly did he make him- 
self at home. Lucy was especially glad to see him, and 
the joy appeared to be mutual. Somehow to her his 
handclasp seemed even more cordial than usual. 

“ I was so glad to hear from my cousin,” he began, 
joining at once in the family council. 

“ Oh ! Did Miss Worthington tell you ? ’ ’ interrupted 


IDEAS. 


37 


Lucy. “ I am sure, then, you will tell me how to go to 
work.” 

“I have plenty for you, in good season,” he an- 
swered. 

The visitor was none other than the Rev. Richard 
Morrison. The Rathbones had known him as a boy, 
before he had decided to enter the ministry, and he had 
then been a frequent visitor to their home. He and 
Lucy had always been the best of fiiends. During his 
absence at college they, of course, had lost sight of him, 
but since his return to his former home they had renewed 
the old friendship. 

“ I came to tell you how Miss Lucy did at the com- 
mencement,” he said. “ But I see I am too late. You 
wouldn’t believe a word of my criticism now, any- 
how.” 

“ Aren’t you mean ? ” said Lucy, as she feigned a pout. 
“ I am sure I don’t mind what you say.” 

“ Not if I bestow praise ? ” 

“ In that case you may consider the meeting adjourned 
until next time. We’ll take your word for it. What I 
must know is, who was that dear, delightful creature who 
stood with you during the whole of the exercises? ” 

“That? Why, it is curious, but I really thought of 
bringing him here with me this evening. Then I con- 
sidered it better to wait, and get Mrs. Rathbone’s per- 
mission.” 

“Any friend of yours, Dick, would be welcome here,” 
said Mrs. Rathbone, always on hospitality intent. 


38 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


Lucy was manifestly impatient. Possibly Morrison 
knew this, and could not resist the wish to tease her by 
not replying at once to her curiosity. 

“What is his name?” she finally queried, growing 
tired of waiting an answer to her first question. 

“ Clyde Desmond.” 

“The artist? I’m so sorry you didn’t bring him. 
They say he is absolutely too good to live — yet so 
eccentric in Bis ways. You know how generous he is, 
establishing that mission school down on the south 
side ” 

Mr. Morrison interrupted her: “Did he really? How 
dull he must have thought me. Why, don’t you know, 
I was telling him about that mission, and he never said 
a word.” 

“Native modesty, of course,” exclaimed Lucy. 

“By the way,” asked the young minister, “what sub- 
ject was under discussion when I came in? You all 
appeared totally oblivious to the door bell.” 

“ Let Dick into it,” said Charlie, already familiar with 
the new assistant pastor. “ He’s up in all that sort of 
thing.” 

Mrs. Rathbone considered the slangy phraseology of 
her sons as deplorable, but nothing that she could do or 
say seemed to mend it. Mr. Morrison understood boy 
nature better. 

“The boys know me, Mrs. Rathbone,” he said, smil- 
ing. “Now I want to find out what ‘that sort of 
thing ’ is.” 


IDEAS. 


39 


He was speedily enlightened, and made acquainted 
with the several merits of Miss Laura Macy and the 
Dallas family. It pleased him, he knew not why, to 
know that the lair essayist who had so excited his interest 
was a comrade of Miss Rathbone. It seemed that he 
already knew the Dallases by repute. 

I heard a story recently whose hero cannot say 
enough in praise of Dr. Dallas,” he said. 

“ Who is it ? Some one who knows him intimately ? ” 
asked Lucy, always enthusiastic upon the subject of Nan’s 
relatives. 

“ His name is Dale. Clyde Desmond told me about 
him. Dale considers Dr. Dallas and his wife but a little 
lower than the angels. To use his own words, they kept 
him from falling back into perdition.” 

“I have heard about him,” said Mrs. Rathbone. 
“ John Dale, you know, Lucy. The story was so garbled, 
though, by the reporters, I wish you would give us your 
account.” 

“Nan has often spoken of a Mr. Dale, who was her 
father’s right-hand man in all his projects, especially 
those for the children. Is he the one? ” 

Mr. Morrison assented. 

“He is a noble creature,” he said. “Well named 
John. I fancy the beloved disciple must have had a face 
like his — strength so subtly blended with sweetness.” 

“ Have you met this Dale ? ' ’ 

“ Only for a passing glimpse. It was in the car the 
other day, which is how Desmond came to tell me about 


40 


HOW THIJ GARDENS GREW. 


him. His appearance attracted my attention, and I 
asked Clyde for his history.” 

The clergyman here took an easier position, preparing 
to relate the life history of the reclaimed. But John 
Dale deserves a chapter to himself. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE EVOLUTION OF A WEED. 

No evil dooms us hopelessly except the evil we love, and desire to 
continue in, and make no effort to escape from. — George Eliot. 

U TT was this way,” Mr. Morrison began. “That is, 
if I remember rightly what Desmond told me. 
You have heard, perhaps, Mrs. Rathbone, of the artistic 
propensity for tumbling into odd places in search of 
models. Well, one day Desmond took a notion to ex- 
plore Chinatown all by himself, to see if he couldn’t rake 
up some new subject. He fancied his patrons were wea- 
ried of his ordinary figure pieces, genre sketches, land- 
scapes, and the like, though very good things they are, 
by the way. 

“ Up one alley and down another he tramped, but all 
there was to be seen were shops and Mongolian men and 
children, pleasing enough subjects, it is true, but which 
had been about exhausted by Alexander and others. 
You know the former’s success in depicting that sort of 
scene, especially.” 

“ I understand that Joullin has also taken up this line,” 
interposed Mrs. Rathbone. 

“Is that so? Well, I wish him luck, I am sure — 
better luck than Clyde had in getting odd models. He 
thought he never was to find one, when all at once he 

41 


42 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


caught sight of the most villainous old Chinaman you 
ever saw or dreamed of — a little, wizen-faced creature, 
with a gray beard straggling from his withered chin. 
Clyde said he knew the fellow was a veritable Mephis- 
topheles the moment his eyes fell upon him ; and he also 
meant to get a sketch of his phiz without delay. With 
the known dislike of the Chinese to being photographed, 
he had to work rapidly. In a jiffy out came his camera 
from his pocket, and before the creature got away a neg- 
ative was secured. Of course, one could not judge of 
its correctness until afterward. 

“ But this was not enough. The old Mongolian in- 
terested Clyde somehow, and he was bound to make his 
acquaintance. He had stood at the entrance to a most 
notorious opium joint, which Clyde, upon a moment’s 
reflection, decided to visit. Have you ever seen one, 
Mrs. Rathbone ? No? Well, you have missed a most 
interesting, if pathetic and extremely disgusting sight. 
¥ou can’t go in without a guide, you know; therefore 
Clyde set about securing one for himself. Not a police- 
man in sight ; so he looked out for some sort of a white 
man as a guide. Curious, is it not ? Most people have 
an inborn distrust of the heathen Celestial as a guide. 
An exceedingly youthful object of Desmond’s search 
stood a few doors away. He was a most pitiable looking 
object, though Clyde $aid he did not bestow much 
thought upon him then. It was afterward that his ap- 
pearance enlisted his sympathies, and his guidance was 
solicited and straightway obtained by the usual fee. The 










































































































































How the Gardens Grew. 


Page 43 











THE EVOLUTION OF A WEED. 


43 


two descended into the joint. It was a curious experi- 
ence. Some time I will get my friend, Dr. Hartley, of 
the Chinese Mission, to go with us upon an excursion 
through the Chinese quarters. I sha’ n’t tell you now of 
Desmond’s experience in those truly infernal regions, 
nor how he prosecuted an acquaintance with the subject 
of this sketch. You have all seen the latter. It was 
shown at one of the exhibitions of the Art Association, 
labeled ‘A Mongolian Mephistopheles.’ I saw it in 
New York, in the private art gallery of the dealer who 
bought it. You remember it, Mrs. Rathbone? I thought 
so. It was a face one could not easily forget. 

“ I am a frightful hand at telling a story. Probably 
getting up sermons spoils any talent I might develop as a 
story-teller. I wish Desmond was here to relate the tale. 
Here I have almost lost sight of the subject; yet the 
story’s hero was Desmond’s guide. When they emerged 
from the den, — Clyde said any one having a sense of the 
distinction between perfume and odor would have done 
so with alacrity, — when they emerged, I repeat, of course, 
Clyde handed the fellow his fee. ‘Thanks,’ he said, 
and turned to go. In what direction, do you suppose ? 
Right about face into the place they had just come from. 
As Clyde said, he fancies no one has a better idea than 
himself of the propriety of attending to one’s own af- 
fairs to the exclusion of other people’s ; yet the fellow 
looked so young and all-around miserable, that he didn’t 
want him to go to ruin if he could help it. So Desmond 
grasped his arm — such a thin one, he said ! 


44 


HO\F THE GARDENS GREW. 


“ ‘ See here, young man/ exclaimed he, ‘ where are 
you going ? ’ 

“‘To hit the pipe/ he answered, rather sullenly. 
‘ What business is it of yours ? * 

“ ‘Not much, perhaps. But you’re a fellow-country- 
man, if I don’t miss my mark — a man and a brother. 
I wouldn’t wish a relative of mine to waste his time and 
health in such a place. Say, now, my boy, leave such 
amusements to the heathen, won’t you, and come away ? ’ 
“‘I can’t/ he answered. ‘You don’t understand. 
Once get a taste of the pipe, and you’re done for.’ 

“ They had quite a talk after that, but he didn’t enter 
the joint at that time. In fact, he never went there 
again. You know of my friend, — he is Desmond’s friend 
also, — Dr. Thorne, and have heard of his hypnotizing ex- 
periments ? Possibly you have heard — indeed the papers 
were full of it while I was in New York last summer — • 
of the young man who was cured of the opium habit by 
a simple method? No, Miss Lucy? Well, here goes, 
then. You see, he placed the man in a hospital, and 
every day paid him a visit. When the fellow began to 
grow restless and to feel the need of the drug, the doctor 
would put him under the influence of his concentrated 
mind, and would say: ‘ Now, here’s your pipe; have a 
smoke.’ And pretty soon, after taking lingering puffs 
at an imaginary pipe, the youth would go off to dream- 
land, as naturally as you please. Whether his delusions 
were the same as when puffing the real article, I do not 
know. The doctor continued his treatment for some 


THE EVOLUTION OF A WEED. 


45 


time regularly, in the meantime fortifying his patient 
with good, wholesome food. Finally he went there less 
often ; then not at all. For, don’t you see? — the man 
was cured.” 

Lucy spoke : “ Some things done by hypnotists are 
exceedingly absurd, I think. Fancy making a man im- 
agine himself a bear, and go around on all fours, growl- 
ing. This occurred at a lecture I attended last month.” 

*‘Yes, such illustrations are not only foolish, but 
wrong. They are said to impair the entire nervous sys- 
tem of the person who submits.” 

Mrs. Rathbone here put in a word. 

“ These silly experiments have no more to do, Lucy, 
with the real significance of hypnotism than the dancing 
of a pith doll charged with electricity is related to the 
great system itself.” 

“ Say, Mr. Morrison,” interrupted Charlie, — he hated 
anything like arguments and discussions, could see no 
use in them, in fact, except to take up valuable time, — 

* what had that man to do with your opium fellow, I 
want to know ? ” 

“ Don’t you see the connection? The man was John 
Dale. Three years ago it happened, and he has never 
touched the drug since. With God’s help, he never 
will.” 

“ Where does the Dallas family’s help come in?” 
asked Mrs. Rathbone. 

“ Once, and once only, was Dale tempted to return to 
the old life. Their aid in this trying juncture, joined to 


46 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


their heartfelt prayers, kept him back. Don’t you think, 
my friends, that Dale is rather a hero, a whole novel in 
himself? ” 

“Yes, indeed,” assented Lucy. “It doesn’t seem 
possible that such a story could have lived itself right in 
this city. But your Mr. Desmond is a bigger hero than 
John Dale, in my eyes.” 

“ Well, you shall meet the hero at the first oppor- 
tunity.” 

“ How was it that this Dale contracted the habit of 
taking opium ? And how was it there was no one but 
the artist to take an interest in his welfare ? ” 

Mr. Rathbone had not been so interested in anything 
outside of business for years as he was in the tale the 
clergyman had related. 

“ Well, that is another story. What do you say, Mr. 
Rathbone ? Shall the meeting adjourn now ? It is get- 
ting late.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


CLYDE DESMOND. 

Can a man help imitating that with which he holds reverential 
converse ? — Plato. 

A MAN with a personal experience such as that Mr. 

Morrison related of Clyde Desmond is apt to have 
something in him. The fact is, Clyde was somewhat of 
a character, a combination of noble and occasionally 
erratic tendencies. Tolstoi’s milder theories found in 
him a ready and able exponent. Loving his fellow- 
creatures he had a great amount of faith in them, and 
though not blessed with an overplus of this world’s 
goods, was always seeking ways to benefit them. As we 
know, he was an artist, the aspect of life he loved best 
to give expression to in his pictures being the shadows, 
the darker phases of city life. That is, he loved to ex- 
plore those portions of the town usually relegated to the 
lower classes, and from the denizens of that region he 
would take his models. Though he never gave voice to 
such a sentiment, and his companions would have' 
laughed to scorn the idea of Desmond being a reformer, 
there is little doubt that his designs were to draw in a 
forcible manner the attention of the rich to the needs 
of the poor. His ragamuffin pictures were extremely 
popular, and he sold sufficient of these and of others to 

47 


48 HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 

make a comfortable living. At thirty, he was still a 
bachelor. “ This hand-to-mouth way of living is good 
enough for me,” he would remark to those who 
questioned him as to why he preferred a single life. 
“ But as for condemning some tenderly nurtured girl to 
share it, my dear fellow, it wouldn’t do in the least.” 

There was a mission school in the southern portion of 
the city that mainly owed its being to Clyde Desmond’s 
exertions in its behalf. It struck Mr. Morrison that here 
was a good field for Lucy to begin the work she con- 
templated. A few nights after this thought occurred, he 
called at the Rathbone mansion, this time accompanied 
by Clyde, who was in no wise reluctant to meet the 
pretty girl whose face had captivated his fancy at the 
commencement exercises at Miss Worthington’s. 

The family was at home, gathered in the library, 
where a bright fire gave smiling contrast to the gloom 
without. Even in summer, in this part of the world, one 
builds a fire to keep away the evening fog. 

“My friend, Desmond,” was introduced, and readily 
made himself at home. He had such a genial, pleasant 
way about him that no one could help thawing at once. 
Even Mr. Rathbone, who, as a rule, considered that 
penniless people, especially young men without assured 
incomes, had no right to encumber the earth, could not 
look askance at the artist, who made him interested in 
spite of himself with his breezy, timely observations. 
Morrison was pleased to find his friend welcomed into 
the home circle so cordially. He liked to see everybody 


CLYDE DESMOND. 


49 


happy about him. That is why he had chosen the 
branch of clerical work which would bring him into close 
contact with the poor. He wished to bring the tidings 
of joy into godless, and consequently unhappy, homes. 

During their converse, the subject of mission schools 
was broached, Lucy gaining her mother’s permission to 
pay a visit on the following Sunday to the special one in 
which their friend was interested. 

“Dr. Thorne doesn’t believe in mission schools,” 
said Clyde, in answer to a question from Mr. Rathbone, 
“ or in kindergartens. Yet there lives no more. humane 
man than he, I verily believe.” 

“ Why not ? ” was the surprised retort. 

“ He thinks it would be a better idea to discover some 
plan to exterminate evil-doers, render them harmless. 
He holds that to make them better is impossible. 4 Once 
a fiend, always a fiend,’ he says, ‘ and to perpetuate a 
race of fiends is a crime.’ You see, being a physician, 
he believes implicitly in the hereditary theory. Like 
Besant’s 4 Demoniac,’ he thinks it useless to try to fight 
against an hereditary trait.” 

“ Then he would have us fold our hands and accept 
the inevitable? ” * 

“ Not exactly ; but he considers that the work done in 
trying to rescue others from evil benefits the benefactor, 
not the recipient.” 

“And he doesn’t believe in General Booth’s noble 
plan developed in ‘ In Darkest England ? ’ ” This from 
Lucy, the enthusiast 

D 


50 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


“ I fancy he has not given the affair much thought.” 

“And yet,” observed Mrs. Rathbone, “Is not Dr. 
Thorne the man who cured John Dale, taking such pains 
over a youth who was an utter stranger to him ? ” 

“That was different,” returned Clyde. “It was in 
the interests of science. Besides, he knew that in Dale 
the opium habit was not hereditary.” 

“That reminds me,” said Lucy. “Mr. Morrison, 
you didn’t tell us how John Dale contracted the habit.” 

“ Desmond knows better than I Let him take the 
floor. 

“ It is a pretty long story,” began the artist. “ Dale’s 
father died when he was a child — was drowned, I believe, 
or died at sea, while returning from a voyage. His 
mother was an easy-going woman, and let John do pretty 
much as he pleased. She married again, and that made 
matters worse. The stepfather couldn’t manage John, 
and John wouldn’t be managed. When he was about 
eighteen he ran away, and finally drifted out here. He 
knocked about from one employment to another, was 
never very successful in anything, probably because he 
had no definite aim in life. Insufficient clothing and 
lack of proper care while ill with a cold developed a 
severe lung trouble. His landlady, thinking he would 
die on her hands, and she be compelled to bury him, 
or at any rate cause herself unnecessary trouble, per- 
haps, sent him to a hospital. To ease his pain, morphine 
was prescribed. Of course he got it then in small doses, 
but after his lungs grew stronger and he was sent away, 


CLYDE DESMOND. 


51 


he found that the morphine taste had not been eradicated 
from his system. He secured work again, but all his 
wages went for the drug. From that, in his friendless 
condition, to the pipe was but a step. With the pipe 
came degradation. He could not work, so he used to 
beg or borrow the money to gratify his opium habit. 
No, he did not steal, he said, his sense of honor not 
being quite dead. He gambled occasionally, chiefly 
with his Chinese companions. Then he used to aid 
them in their lottery schemes. Several times the police 
ran him in and took him before the court, but nothing 
was ever proved against him. Oh, yes, he was as low 
down as one could possibly be.” 

“ Which only proves,” observed the clergyman, in a 
thoughtful tone, “ to what heights the lowest can rise 
when supported by a Father’s strong arm.” 

“ Did he ever hear from his parents? ” asked Lucy. 

“ Not a word. Of course they never knew where to 
write. He made inquiries, but the whole family had 
disappeared. He had a little brother of whom he was 
very fond — his stepfather’s son. He believes they must 
all be dead.” 

Lucy was in a questioning mood to-night. The sub- 
ject of John Dale exhausted, she projected another. 

“Is Dr. Thorne a Christian?” she asked of Mor- 
rison. 

“ No, I don’t think he is. As far as I know, he has 
never entered a church in his life. His father and 
mother were both avowed agnostics. To tell the truth, 


52 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


I never asked Thorne outright. He evades all religious 
subjects.” 

“He certainly carries out the gospel’s precepts,” said 
Clyde. “ His humanity is something inspiring to one 
who has the good fortune of being his friend.” 

“I wish you would bring him in to see us, sometime, 
will you not?” remarked Mrs. Rathbone. 

Both young men laughed. To them the idea even 
seemed ludicrous. 

“Easier said than done,” said Clyde. “In the first 
place, Thorne’s profession precludes him from mingling 
much with any outside his clientele. Secondly, he hates 
society, that is, what we call society. Books are his 
solace. It would make him change certain of his 
theories could he but mingle with our part of the world 
a bit.” 

“How Nan would love to see him,” exclaimed Lucy. 
“ She adores heroes, and I think your doctor is a true 
hero.” Mr. Morrison smiled, remembering what Lucy 
had said upon this subject the other evening. 


CHAPTER IX. 

TEACHING A CLASS. 

There is not the least difficulty in doing a thing if you only know 
how to do itj the trouble is to explain your method. — Rudyard 
Kipling. 

U "PHERE is one thing I would like to abolish,’ ’ said 
J- Lucy to Clyde the following Sunday. They had 
been to church and Sunday-school, and were now wend- 
ing their way toward Clyde’s protege. 

“ What is that ? ” asked the young man. He already 
knew his companion well enough to surmise the worth 
of all her reformatory ideas. 

“It is these long opening and closing exercises,” she 
answered. “If I had a school of my own, I would 
never allow any of those interminable introductory 
remarks and summings-up afterward. I would have sing- 
ing, though, not the few hymns they give us at our 
school, but lots of it, and short, earnest prayers. Then, 
when the teachers had finished their talks with their 
respective classes, I’d have one hearty hymn of praise 
before the benediction. I don’t wonder the children 
get restless at having to listen to so many remarks , ser- 
mons rather, not only dull, but far above the hearers’ 
heads.” 

Clyde laughed at Lucy’s excitement. “Well, wait 

53 


54 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


until you become a part of our mission school. There 
is plenty of need of reform there. Not in that direc- 
tion, though,” he added. 

Their short walk ended at the corner of two streets, 
neither of them pleasing to a fastidious eye. A saloon 
was the chief feature in the view. In the same building 
as this home of vice was the hall where Clyde had estab- 
lished his mission. Formerly the quarters of an athletic 
club, there were still occasional signs to be seen of the 
latter’s occupancy. The hall was not scrupulously clean 
as to walls and ceilings, and was entirely bare of adorn- 
ment in the way of pictures and mottoes. It was carpet- 
less, the only furniture consisting of plain wooden chairs 
and settees, and a small organ. All nations seemed to 
be congregated in the room, for Clyde never inquired 
into the nationality of those invited to attend ; every 
one was welcomed. A few children whose parents were 
alive to the peculiar benefits bestowed by the mission’s 
benefactor at the Christmas season, and allowed their 
little ones to mingle with the “heretics” for a time, 
were not at all backward at putting in an appearance 
every Sunday, even scrambling for the best seats. Ger- 
many and Ireland were largest represented in the school, 
with one or two delegates from Italy and Spain. A little 
colored boy sat side by side with an unmistakable 
Hebrew. The children represented various stages of 
prosperity, as well as all phases of nationality. 

“ Some in rags, some in tags, and some in velvet 
gowns,” whispered Lucy, an interested spectator of 


TEACHING A CLASS. 


55 


these various specimens of humanity, to Clyde. “ Where 
did you get them all ? ’ ’ 

“ Went after some,” he answered. “ Others came by 
themselves. A motley crowd, aren’t they?” 

They were indeed, and an unruly crowd, as well. It 
was hard to preserve order, when so many of the chil- 
dren had no idea what the word meant. When the 
school first started, a policeman had to be called in to 
preserve the peace. Certain big boys of the hoodlum 
variety joined just for the sake of making a disturbance. 
When these had been weeded out, no further trouble 
ensued, and the guardian of the peace was permitted to 
take his services elsewhere. Of course, the school was 
by no means the perfectly disciplined one we find as an 
adjunct to a church. This could not be expected where 
the little ones came from miserable homes, many having 
no homes at all. They were pretty good, though, except 
for that love of “making a racket,” which seems to lie 
dormant in most children’s hearts. 

Clyde loved them, and was satisfied if they attended 
the sessions regularly. He knew them all by name, and 
always shook hands and asked after each child’s welfare 
every Sunday. As for the children, they thought Mr. 
Desmond the sum of all the perfections. He was also a 
great favorite with the teachers. Of these there weren’t 
many, not so many as there ought to have been. A 
goodly number had come down from the home school to 
help when the venture was started, but after a few weeks 
their interest died out, and they came no more. That 


56 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


is usually the case when people take up anything just for 
a fad. The novelty over, they drop it at once. Clyde 
hoped Lucy would not be of this class. A few brave 
spirits had stayed by the school, and felt fully repaid 
when their efforts brought one and then another new 
pupil each week to join the school. Prizes were given 
to stimulate interest. Clyde believed in prizes. 

“ These little fellows are too young to consider the 
proposition that virtue is its own reward. I’m going to 
help ’em along a little,” he said, when conservative peo- 
ple remonstrated with him for this lavishness. 

He gave Lucy as a class, after the short opening exer- 
cises, two little lads, both rather ragged and not remark- 
ably clean. I am ashamed to confess, but Lucy shud- 
dered in the depths of her soul. You must remember that 
she was fresh from boarding school, where clean finger 
tips were the rule, and a daily bath a mere matter-of- 
course. Clyde was so used to this style of urchin that 
he noticed nothing unusual in their attire. 

“ They can’t read very well,” he said, “but you can 
talk to them. I don’t believe you can give them the 
‘Internationals’ at once. We don’t as a rule here, 
you know, until they get advanced somewhat.” 

Lucy was dismayed. The little girls she had hitherto 
taught in other classes had been nearly as familiar with 
the Bible as she was heiself. Her teachings had chiefly 
consisted in asking the questions in the quarterly, and 
receiving their answers. What was she to do? She 
decided to find our her new charges’ names first. 


TEACHING A CLASS. 


57 


“ What is your name, dear? ” 

“ ’Taint dear. Jimmie McCloud.” 

“ And yours? ” 

“ Teddy.” 

“ Teddy what? ” 

“ Never you mind. I ain’t goin’ ter give it away till 
I finds out what yer a drivin’ at.” 

Lucy wished to laugh, but knew she must not. Then 
a great horror came over her at the dirt pressing so near 
her dainty garments. “They must be washed,” she 
thought. “ I wonder how I can broach the subject to 
them?” Her thoughts finally voiced themselves. In 
coaxing tones, she pressed the subject upon them, the, 
importance of cleanliness in hands and faces. 

“Never mind your clothes,” she said. “Ragged 
clothes don’t matter in the least. But water is cheap, 
and may be had for the use. And boys, won’t you try 
it on your faces and hands ? ’ ’ 

Jimmie had met this sort of proposition before. He. 
was a public school boy, and knew how to meet every 
argument in favor of cleanliness with one equally forci- 
ble in favor of dirt. A promised bribe from Lucy lured 
from him the statement, “ Next Sunday I’ll wash ’em, 
ter please you.” 

Teddy would not promise, so Lucy did not urge him. 
After her little lecture, she told them a Bible story. 
School over, Jimmie alone promised to come again the 
next Sunday. Teddy had flown away, she knew not 
where. 


58 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


“Well?” questioned Clyde, as they wended their 
steps homeward. 

“Not well,” answered Lucy. “I fear I was never 
cut out for a teacher.” 

“Why not?” 

“ I made such a dismal failure to-day. Talking to 
those boys about keeping their faces clean, and never 
mentioning their souls.” 

“ ‘ Cleanliness is next to godliness.’ ” 

“I’m beginning to believe that a mistaken notion. 
Primitive nature doesn’t bathe from choice, does it? 
Those boys are surely primitive.” 

“Perhaps. Anyhow, next Sunday, now you have a 
hold on their hearts, you can reach them more easily the 
next time.” 

“ If there is a next time,” said his companion, with a 
sigh. 


CHAPTER X. 


A PRIMITIVE SPECIMEN. 


Kindness — a language which the dumb can speak, and the deaf 
can understand. — B ovee. 



HERE was not a next time for Teddy. That is, not 


exactly that kind of a next time. Perhaps you 
would like to have a pen portrait of Teddy? He was 
very small, very thin, and not very clean. In fact, some 
people might have called him very dirty indeed, especi- 
ally his face. He had all the antipathy of the ordinary 
street gamin to soap and water, with a little thrown in on 
his own account. Eut he had two bright eyes, in which 
the tears were shining now, and a dear little mouth, droop- 
ing at the corners. For Teddy was hungry. There is no 
doubt about it ; for he had had nothing but a cracker to 
eat all day; and a cracker is not so very “filling” 1 
At any rate it is calculated to fill only a very small spot, 
and small as Teddy was he was too big to be filled by a 
cracker. 

Teddy was only ten years old ; but for all that he was 
his own master. His father died first. That was when 
they lived in the East, and Teddy was “nothin’ but a 
kid,” as the lad would have phrased it. Then his mother 
started out to find Jack. Jack was Teddy’s big brother, 
a good many years older than himself. He had never 


59 


60 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


amounted to much, Teddy had been told, and at last he 
had taken himself out of the way. “ Gone to California,” 
folks said. Everybody went to California in those days ; 
running away to sea had gone out of fashion. That is 
why Teddy’s mother, therefore, had come to California. 

But she did not find Jack. In the first place, she did 
not know exactly how and where to search for him ; in the 
second place, her money gave out. She fell ill and died, 
and Teddy was left alone — a little fellow only seven 
years old. 

He was ten now, and his last three years had been 
spent in picking up a living somehow or other. Some- 
times he sold papers ; occasionally he ran errands ; in the 
strawberry and orange seasons he rode on a peddler’s 
cart, and lang the door bells of houses,- showing the peo- 
ple who answered his ring astonishingly enormous samples 
of his wares. To-day, somehow or other, the living 
wouldn’t be picked up, and Teddy had to go hungry. 

Across the street stood Clyde’s mission. Teddy saw 
the boys going up the stairs. He knew some of them, 
in fact he had ventured in himself last Sunday ; but he 
did not care to go any more. His teacher had told him 
she would give him a pretty card if he would come on 
the following Sunday, that is, to-day, with clean face and 
hands. Now if there was any one thing Teddy su- 
premely hated, as we have already more than hinted, it 
was clean hands and face. “ Dudefied ! ” he called 
such a condition. In the street boy’s unwritten law, to 
be a “ dude ” was a crime. 


A PRIMITIVE SPECIMEN. 


61 


To be sure, the pretty young lady had said she would 
give him a card, but Teddy was too smart for her. He 
had seen those cards, and he knew that little verses were 
printed on them, which one had to learn. Oh, yes ! he 
was too cute for that. If she had promised a top, or 
marbles, now — but a card ! Well, Teddy stayed on the 
other side of the street. Then Jimmie McCloud came 
along. I am sorry to have to record it, but Teddy made 
a face at him. “ Hi, Jimmie!” he shouted, “ where 
did yer get that hat ? ’ ’ 

Jimmie did look rather stylish — ‘ ‘ giddy,” he called it 
himself. His face was clean, his hands fairly so ; cuffs 
and a turned-down collar of black and white calico were 
further ornamented by a large red necktie. His clothes 
were the same ones of the previous Sunday, but his chief 
glory was his hat — quite a smart new Derby. He hardly 
disdained to cast a glance at the plebeian Teddy; but he 
said, condescendingly: 

“What’s the matter with yer cornin’ over, yer- 
self? ” 

“Not any for me, thanks,” retorted Teddy. Then, 
as he caught sight of Lucy and Clyde in the distance, 
he took to his heels, and was soon lost to view. 

When Lucy came up, she asked : “ Wasn’t that Teddy 
I saw speaking with you just now, Jimmie ? ” 

“ Yes’m. But he ain’t cornin’ no more.” 

“ Why not? ” 

“ Well, he says he don’t take no pleasure in bein’ 
clean.” And Jimmie slightly emphasized the second 


62 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


“ he,” as he cast a downward look upon his own spotless 
attire. 

“I’m so sorry,” said Lucy. “ Can you tell me where 
he lives ? ’ ’ 

“ Oh, yes’m. He boards at Jerry O’Brien’s aunt’s 
house. That is, when he’s flush. When he ain’t got no 
money, nobody knows where he keeps himself. ’ ’ 

“ Has he no parents ? ” 

“ No’m. They’re dead. Teddy don’t have to knuckle 
to no one. He’s his own boss.” A slightly regretful 
shade might have been detected in Jimmie’s tones. As- 
suredly he was not his own boss. And that condition 
of things seemed very delightful to Jimmie, as indeed it 
does to most of us. 

“ Well, give me the address of that house you men- 
tioned. I will go and see him to-morrow.” 

Teddy in the meanwhile was running for dear life. It 
seemed as if he couldn’t put sufficient distance between 
himself and that Sunday-school. In his flight he did 
not look to right or left. All at once, he ran plump into 
a solitary pedestrian, the concussion being so great that 
the lad was thrown backward, striking his head against 
the stone sidewalk. He lay there quite still. The unin- 
tentional cause of his fall stooped and picked him up ; but 
Teddy fell back again, a limp mass of skin and bone. 

“Poor boy!” said the man. Then he gathered 
Teddy in his arms, and walking on for a block or so, he 
soon reached a house, whose general appearance betok- 
ened a physician’s residence. He carried his burden up 


A PRIMITIVE SPECIMEN. 


63 


the stairs, and opening the door with his pass-key, en- 
tered. Teddy was taken into a bedroom and placed 
upon the bed. Not until his head had been bathed for 
some minutes with alternate applications of hot and cold 
water, did he open his eyes. Then, how he stared, to 
see the strange room and the stranger’s face bending 
over him. 

“ What yer doin’ ? ” he finally asked. 

“Bathing your head,” answered the other. 

“ What for? ” 

“ Because it was the only way in which I could bring 
you to your senses.” 

“ Jingo ! What’s the matter? ” 

Then recollection came back to Teddy, and he burst 
out laughing. 

“ I almost knocked you down, didn’t I?” he said. 
Then he went on, and explained to the other the reason 
of his rapid transit over the sidewalk, and various other 
things in his history. He soon fell back on the pillows, 
quite exhausted. 

The stranger left him a few minutes, soon returning 
with a nice little lunch laid out upon a tray. Teddy’s 
eyes danced. 

“ How’d yer know I was hungry? ” he asked. “ Ain’t 
had nothin’ but a cracker to eat all day ! ” 

You may be sure he left nothing upon any of the plates. 
When he had finished, he began questioning the other. 

“ What’s yer name ? ” 

“ Doctor Thorne.” 


64 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


“ Not the feller at the hospital ? ” 

“ The very same.” 

“You’re great, you are. We us'ed to call it out, yer 
know : ‘ Extra ! All about the Opium Fiend ! ’ Yes, I 
know yer.” 

He raised himself on the pillow, and held out his hand. 

“ Proud to know yer, sir,” he said. 

“ The same to you, my boy.” 

Then Teddy, a sweetly satisfied smile upon his face, 
fell asleep. It had been long since he had been in a bed 
like that, and his tired little form made the most of it. 


CHAPTER XI. 


LAURA MACY. 


“ Soldiers, I have often heard that the best man is he who can tell 
himself what is the right thing ; that next comes he who listens to 
good advice ; and that he who cannot advise himself nor submit to 
another, has the meanest capacity of all.” — Minucius to his 
Troops (Livy). 

HE detective’s search did not result in finding any- 



J- body upon whom Laura might bestow those ill- 
gotten gains. There was no end to the “ John Waltons ” 
unearthed, with their descendants unto the third and in 
one instance the fourth generation. Not one was the 
John Walton who had involuntarily made Paxton Macy 
his heir. They began to fancy the whole thing a sick 
man’s chimera. Laura finally decided to take her. 
guardian’s advice, let well enough alone and enjoy her 
wealth until the time came to give it up. After a deli- 
ciously lazy summer at “ Crags,” she came up to town and 
hunted up her friends. Lucy’s earnest manner of going 
to work took Laura’s fancy at once. The latter fulfilled 
her intention of joining the First Church, thereby 
making a marked increase in the attendance of young 
men at that sanctuary. All the world dearly loves an 
heiress. When she is a beauty as well, that adds a deal 
to the admiration. 


E 


C5 


66 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


Laura thoroughly intended to follow out those high 
ideals she had formed while under Miss Worthington’s 
influence, and to keep herself unspotted from the world. 
Her father’s wishes had been that she assume a place in 
society consistent with her wealth, and her aunt, Mrs. 
Van Bergh, a leader of the local aristocracy, was always 
urging her to carry out those desires. Just at present 
Laura’s inclinations did not lead her in that direction. 
She was much interested in Mr. Morrison’s “slum- 
ming ’ ’ 1 work, and aided him in every way as far as her 
money and personal services could do so. As Laura 
was practically her own mistress, and not particularly 
controlled by any one except her aunt, she could be, and 
was, a genuine help to the young pastor. They could 
not reach everybody — the Salvation army seems to be 
the only agency that can go to the heart of the matter, 
in connection with these sinful ones in the slums. Even 
if people accustomed to more decorous and precise 
methods cannot quite approve of the loud methods of 
General Booth’s followers, there is no real question about 
their accomplishing an untold amount of good in their 
way. 

Society smiled when it heard of the “fad” of the 
heiress, but Laura did not mind the sneers of those for 
whose good opinion she cared very little. It was a bit 
of gossip overheard at a church social that spoilt it all, 

1 This word has become somewhat familiar since the “ College Settlement ” 
movement. For the information of those not familiar with it we may say that it 
simply means working to benefit the inhabitants of the slums or low districts, of a 
great city. 


LAURA MACY. 


67 


and nearly had the effect of hardening Laura’s heart 
forever. It happened on this wise. Laura had been 
working busily for the success of the affair, and feeling 
rather tired after her efforts, withdrew into £ quiet recess 
to rest for a brief space before helping with the refresh- 
ments. Two ladies, Mrs. Lewis and Mrs. Rathbone, 
were conversing a short distance from the cosy corner in 
which Laura had taken refuge, in tones which they evi- 
dently thought were inaudible, but which were far from 
that to one near by. Possibly they would have moder- 
ated their voices had they known the subject of their 
remarks was in such easy hearing distance. Laura could 
not move without their seeing her, which would have 
covered them both with embarrassment. After the first 
few words, a feminine curiosity held her to the spot. 

“Yes,” observed Mrs. Rathbone. “It would be a 
splendid thing for him.” 

“Even ministers can’t help liking money,” added 
Mrs. Lewis. “And I always thought her religious zeal 
was owing to something more than a mere love of the 
thing itself.” 

“I am sure you wrong her a little there. Lucy is 
quite as crazy over this mission work as is Miss Macy, 
and you surely couldn’t fancy for a moment that she is 
in love with Dick Morrison or the artist.” 

“I should think not, especially the latter; but the 
heiress goes about things differently. Besides, she is 
with him all the time in these “slumming” excursions. 
No doubt he makes good use of his opportunities.” 


68 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


“ I can’t believe Dick is mercenary.” 

“But possibly Miss Macy wouldn’t be so religious 
were our old pastor her adviser instead of his handsome 
young assistant.” 

With burning cheeks, Laura shrank closer to the wall. 
She had no doubt whom they meant. Could they be 
right? Had she been mistaken in fancying herself a 
Christian ? Had all these lofty thoughts no foundation 
at all in her soul but a love for the creature? No, 
emphatically. It was long before she had ever met the 
Reverend Richard Morrison that her heart had been 
opened to the beauties of th£ gospel. Could it have 
been even then that it was only because she wished to be 
like Miss Worthington that she had convinced herself 
otherwise ? She tried to probe her motives. Impossible ; 
rather than brook a continuance of those remarks she 
would leave it all. An opportunity offering her to 
emerge from her corner unobserved, she took advantage 
of it, and pleading headache as an excuse for not 
remaining during the evening, she went home. 

The next day the newspapers remarked the departure 
of Miss Macy for her country home. Laura filled the 
house with guests, all of whom were the gayest, wildest 
spirits she could muster together under one roof. One 
riotous pleasure after another was entered into, Laura 
trying to lull those disturbing thoughts to rest. One 
would have thought she had never harbored another idea 
than to make her life a continuous holiday. Lucy came 
down for a few days and enjoyed herself to the fullest 


LAURA MACY. 


69 


extent. She was always fond of merry-makings, but did 
not put them first in her life. Possibly if she had not 
made the great change during her school days, she might 
have been a mere liver for pleasure at this time. That 
early decision made all the difference. 

Her loving, consequently acute, penetration quickly 
espied a change in her friend, though she hardly compre- 
hended the reason of it. Laura seemed a mere butterfly, 
utterly reckless of everything beyond getting the most 
pleasure out of existence. Lucy began to believe her 
mother was right and Laura’s former seriousness but a 
passing fad. As for those grand ideas of a few months 
before, when Laura had declared her intentions of going 
to work like one of Besant’s heroines and trying to 
ameliorate the condition of the downtrodden working 
girl, Miss Macy evidently had completely forgotten the 
utterance of such sentiments. 

The heiress’ return to town was marked by no change 
in her pursuits. She went to live with her aunt, much 
to that lady’s satisfaction, and plunged into a vortex of 
gayety. Miss Macy’s gowns, pursuits, and conquests, 
were duly and daily chronicled by the scribes who did 
“ society” for the papers. Lucy scarcely ever saw he? 
friend, and Mr. Murdock only at rare intervals. 

As for Morrison, he did not know what to think about 
it. He called one day at Mrs. Van Bergh’s, having 
come across certain information in regard to one of 
Laura’s former proteges which he thought would interest 
her. The servant ushered him into the drawing room 


70 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


where Mrs. Van Bergh and her niece were entertaining 
a number of callers. When she saw the young clergy- 
man, Laura hesitated a moment. She had not seen him' 
since that memorable evening to her, and she felt some- 
what awkward about the desertion. Then she came for- 
ward, greeting him most effusively : “ My dear Mr. 
Morrison, it is an age since I saw you last. Do sit down 
while I pour you out some tea.” He could not have 
been more dumbfounded had she stared at him through 
a lorgnette, for this sentence was followed up by others 
so contrary to her usual manner that he was not able to 
get in one serious word, nor even to tell her that Mrs. 
Jaines’ Tom was earning a splendid salary at the new 
place Mr. Murdock had found him, which had been the 
real reason of his call. 

He went away thoroughly dissatisfied and heartsick. 
He knew now what his sentiments had been in regard to 
Laura Macy. Why had he, after consecrating himself to 
his work, been drawn aside from it by a pretty face ? 
As to Laura’s fortune, he never bestowed a thought upon 
it. In spite of Mrs. Lewis’ suspicions, Dick Morrison 
was not a fortune hunter. On his way home he tried to 
conjure up a good reason for the change in Laura’s con- 
duct. There was no change in his own feelings toward 
her. He knew now that he loved her, even better than 
his own soul, he said to himself. Without her, the 
world was all flat, stale, and unprofitable. He began to 
think that perhaps he had missed his vocation after all. 
He was not holy, unselfish enough to be on£ of the 


LATTE A MACY. 


71 


priests of God. The mood was not one he could throw 
off at once, especially since he wished to make no one, 
not even Clyde Desmond, his confidant. He would 
wrestle with his pain alone with his Maker. 

The last observation in the game of “ Consequences ’ 9 
is, you know, “ What the world said.” Dick Morrison’s 
world, the congregation of the First Church, had much 
to say about Miss Macy’s dereliction and the assistant 
pastor’s dejection, which latter was so manifest. Some 
said Laura had jilted the clergyman ; others remarked 
vice versa. All agreed that it was a good thing, and 
that a butterfly should never wed a bee. 


CHAPTER XII. 


nan’s home. 

Whoever makes home seem to the young dearer and more happy, 
is a public benefactor. — H enry Ward Beecher. 

I T was not much to look at on the outside, surely. A 
great, bare frame house, with no oriel or bay windows 
with antique facings, to relieve the sober, dismal monot- 
ony of its architecture. The roses climbing over the 
front door took away something of the bare look, how- 
ever, and the garden distracted one’s eye from the house. 
That garden was certainly a medley ; bewildering masses 
of gay-hued poppies and hollyhocks growing cheek by 
jowl with sweet mignonette, violets, pansies, and dainty 
callas, — that is, when the last named were in season, — 
mariposa lilies, baby blue-eyes, “hen and chickens;” 
creamcups and buttercups also mingled with their culti- 
vated sisters. It was not such a garden as one sees in 
the city. 

Well, the people who owned the garden were not of 
the ordinary type to be found in cities, either. Dr. Dal- 
las might have taken charge of a high-salaried parish in 
the East. His gifts fitted him for it, and he had influ- 
ence, which is the main thing in these days ; but he had 
chosen a home missionary’s lot, and neither he nor his 
contented, merry little wife ever regretted the choice. 
72 


nan’s home. 


73 


You know something about the way in which their work 
began in this Sierran town, or village, rather. Their 
daughter Nan was one part of the “ sandwich,” and Lucy 
Rathbone’s school “chum.” All the good qualities the 
latter claimed for her friend, were really hers. 

At the present moment Nan was busy indoors, making 
paper pin wheels for four small children clustered about 
her knees. There was not anything bare or bleak-look- 
ing about the inside of that house. The furniture was old, 
but it had a comfortable, “ homey ” air ; the paper on the 
Avails was of a cheerful pattern, and the piano, and Nan’s 
guitar in the corner, with a crowded bookcase, and a few 
good pictures on the walls, showed the initiated visitor 
that culture was not entirely unknown, even in a locality 
far from civilization. There were three boys in the fam- 
ily, blessed with the commonest of cognomens. They 
endured a vast amount of ignominy from their big sister, 
who often averred that she could by no means allow 
herself to be on familiar terms with “ every Tom, Dick, 
and Harry ” — her brothers’ names. The youngest mem- 
ber of the circle was Lillian, called Bebe, for short, and 
who doubtless would carry the nickname until her dying 
day. By no means least in the boys’ estimation, who 
considered him far nearer and dearer than any blood re- 
lation, was John Dale. 

Life at Fern Ridge had freshened up wonderfully since 
Nan’s advent. Dale felt himself cast somewhat in the 
background, when the school-girl’s ideas began to “ rule 
the roost.” Who knows more than a recent graduate? 


74 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


I fancy at no part of one’s life has he that supreme con- 
fidence in his own powers that prevails when he is just 
eighteen and fresh from school. Nan rushed into every- 
thing with heart and soul. Her father playfully called 
her “ his left hand.” 

“ Why left? ” pouted Nan. 

“ Why, you know John has been my right hand so 
long. I couldn’t shift sides now.” 

So his daughter had to be satisfied to remain second 
best in this respect. 

Nan finished the pin wheels and gave them to the little 
ones, one of whom was Bebe ; the others, three of the 
former’s scholars. Then she went into the study, where 
her father was meditating over his next day’s sermon. 

“ Busy, father ? ” she asked. 

“ Not in the least, Nan. I am quite finished, and was 
only enjoying a quiet think. Anything important in the 
wind ? ” 

“No, sir. I only wanted to say to somebody how 
happy I feel to think that Tom and Dick are to be bap- 
tized to-morrow night.” 

“Yes. I am glad that of their own accord they have 
taken the step.” 

“ You see they look up so to John. He exerts a splen- 
did influence over them. ’ ’ 

“ Yes. John is a noble fellow. In all my experience 
with men I have known few nobler.” 

“ Isn’t it odd, father, when one thinks how it all came 
about? Lucy Rathbone’s hero, that Mr. Desmond I 


nan’s home. 


75 


have told you about, was the one who found our hero, 
John Dale.” 

“ There was another one too, you remember — Dr. 
Thorne. Without him, John would hardly have been 
where he is to-day.” 

“We can’t be sure. Wouldn’t you love to see the 
doctor? I should, I know.” 

“ We may, sometime. John says he will make him 
visit us all, some day. ’ * 

Nan was silent for a few moments, seemingly thinking 
over something before she spoke. Then she said : 

“ I wish, father, John could find, or we could find for 
him, that little brother he told us about.” 

“I have no doubt the child is dead,” returned the 
minister. 

“ I hate to think so. Better that, though, than a life 
of poverty, or possibly crime.” 

“Why, Nan, there is no reason to think the little Ed- 
ward should have come to poverty. John assured me that 
his step-father was in fairly comfortable circumstances.” 

“Yes, father,” answered Nan. “But I have often 
thought that they could not have been so completely lost 
had not some misfortune come upon them.’ 

“ They were in God’s hands, Nan.” 

“ I know. But John would give so much to be sure 
about their fate. I would be perfectly happy could I be 
the means of restoring his brother to his arms.” 

Nan’s fervor was so real that Dr. Dallas could not 
Laugh at her, though he felt inclined to dub her a roman- 


76 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


tic little puss. He could understand quite well her en- 
thusiasm over John. Every one who met him felt in the 
same way. And John was so grateful for every expression 
of kindness or sympathy. Gratitude is a rare quality in 
these days. There are so many people who take every 
good as a matter of course. 

While the minister and daughter conversed, the door 
opened, and a freckled countenance, surmounted by an 
aureole of golden hair, peeped in. “A letter, Nan,” 
the somewhat grimy hand reaching the article to her out- 
stretched fingers. 

“Thanks, Harry.” 

“ All right, sis,” — the door closing again. Small cour- 
tesies were seldom omitted in the Dallas home circle. 

“ From Lucy,” said Nan. “I’ll read it now, father, 
if you are willing.” She hastily scanned its contents. 

“Oh, father!” she then exclaimed. She wants me 
to come and spend a month with her. She says she has 
so many things she wishes to talk to me about, schemes 
for helping poor people, and all that. Letters can’t ex- 
plain it all.” 

“ How nice it will be for you, Nan ! Your mother 
was saying, yesterday, you needed a change of some sort, 
after working so hard.” 

“ But just at this time, how can I ? ” 

“ Here is your mother now. She will be able to decide 
it for you, and I think I know how it will be.” 

Mrs. Dallas entered, — a tidy, plump matron, with kind 
blue eyes and most bewitching dimples, of which Nan’s 


nan’s home. 


77 


own were counterparts. Let into the contents of Lucy’s 
letter, she soon silenced all Nan’s objections. 

“ But the kindergarten, mother? ” 

“ Jennie Lacy is quite competent to look after it, and 
would be glad of the chance.” 

“ Then my Sunday-school classes ? ” 

“ John will take one, and Tom or Dick the other.” 

“ The sewing school ? ” 

“ Can’t I look after that ? ” 

“ But you have so much to do, mother,” pleaded Nan. 
“ And there is the elocution class, only just begun.” 

“ Your father will look after it.” 

“ Harry and Bebe need watching all the time. They 
are bound to get into mischief.” 

“ My dear girl, are they orphans ? ” mildly asked the 
mother. “ Where are their parents ? ” 

Nan laughed. She could not help it, as she began to 
consider how she had fancied the Fern Ridge world so 
dependent upon her own exertions. 

“I’m glad, mater,” she said. “ For, really, I am wild 
to go, and would have been awfully disappointed if any- 
thing had occurred to prevent. ’ ’ 

There are not many country girls whose impediments 
could have been so easily removed as Nan’s, when in- 
vited to visit a city friend. Dress, potent word, had not 
been mentioned. Nan was by no means a so-called 
“guy,” either; her gowns always being becoming and 
to the last degree, upon her school chum’s authority, 
stylish. But where another girl would put the gown and 


78 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


bonnet forward as reasons for delay, schools and work 
were Nan’s substitutes. 

It was arranged that she should leave on the following 
Tuesday, when two other girls from Fern Ridge would 
also be going on the train, their company warding off 
lonesomeness during the rather extended journey. Jennie 
Lacy and John Dale agreed at once to look after the 
classes Nan felt so sorry at leaving, and her mind was 
thus at rest. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE. 

Perchance hereafter to have remembered these things, will please 
you. — Translation from Virgil. 

1 ^ T MAY find your long-lost brother, John ; who 

a knows ? ” observed Nan to the young man who was 
her escort to the station upon the eventful day of her 
journey to Lucy’s. 

“If you only might ! ” The very thought lit up the 
ordinarily quiet blue eyes of the other. 

“ What did he look like when you last saw him? Do 
you remember ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, indeed. He was a smaller counterpart of my- 
self, my mother used to say. Our features were singu- 
larly alike.” 

“ I would know him at once, then. But what is his 
surname? He was only your half-brother, you said.” 

His name is Dale. Mine was Walton ; but my mother 
had me change it when she married Edward Dale.” 

“ I’ll remember. Good-bye.” 

Nan and her companions had a pleasant journey, nearly 
all of which was through a completely novel country. 
By some unforeseen circumstance their train was delayed, 
so that it was quite dark when they reached the city. 
Nan had written beforehand to Lucy that no one need 

79 


80 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


meet her, for she would arrive early in the afternoon, and 
could take a car direct to the house. The other two 
girls knew just where they were going, so if it had not 
been dark, neither of them would have minded the de- 
lay in time. However, three young women, very tired 
and so sleepy that it was hard for them to keep their eyes 
open, must naturally desire to reach their destination as 
soon as possible. They gave their checks into the trans- 
fer agent’s hands, and then hurried along to the street 
car. Nan was the leader. Reaching a car, she caught 
what she supposed was the hand of one of her compan- 
ions, saying: “ Come, let us hurry. I’m awfully tired, 
and we must try and get to our friends’ houses before 
nine.” She landed her burden quickly in the car, and 
then found she had made a great mistake, as the hand 
she held was that of a man. . His face was wreathed in 
smiles, while Nan was blushing a rosy red. She begged 
a thousand pardons, and then jumped up to look for her 
friends. 

But the car had already started. Looking out of the 
window, she saw the girls had entered another car, prob- 
ably thinking that she was lost in the crowd. This hardly 
lessened her embarrassment ; for beside her sat the man 
whose hand she had so impetuously seized. She stole a 
look at him. He was not very formidable in appearance. 
He was about thirty-five years of age, perhaps, with genial 
dark eyes, and wearing a full beard of sunny brown. He 
was accompanied by a little boy, whose thin, pinched fea- 
tures appeared to point to a recent illness. Something 


A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE. 


81 


in the lad’s appearance seemed reminiscent to Nan. She 
wondered where she had seen eyes like his before. The 
expression too, reminded her of somebody she knew, and 
could not at the moment recall. 

Her street gained, she got out and speedily reached 
Lucy’s house, being at once received and made much of 
by her friends. Lucy was full of queries as to why Nan 
had arrived so late, and as to her adventures on the way. 
The one of the hand-clasp and the car was duly laughed 
at. 

“ Quite a romance, Nan,” said Lucy. “ Wouldn’t it 
be curious if you should meet him again ? ’ ’ 

“ I shouldn’t mind,” replied Nan. “ He had a good 
face. The little boy interested me the most, though.” 

When she had divested herself of her wraps, and of 
some of the dust of travel, Lucy suggested the dining 
room. 

“ It will have to be a light dinner, though,” she ex- 
plained ; “ for we finished long ago, and the boys made 
sad havoc with the roast.” 

Nan’s appetite was easily satisfied, after which she was 
taken into the library to be made acquainted with Lucy’s 
family. Clyde Desmond was also present. Of late he 
spent nearly all of his evenings with the Rathbones. 
They all liked him immensely, the boys especially con- 
sidering that they held a mortgage upon his person. For 
anything else, both Mr. and Mrs. Rathbone, knowing his 
avowed sentiments in regard to matrimony and his impe- 
cunious condition as to property, never thought of him in 
F 


82 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


a nearer connection. Lucy made him the confidant of 
her countless projects. 

Desmond was interested at once when he heard of 
Nan’s adventure. 

“ I believe that was Dr. Thorne,” he said. “ He has 
dark eyes, a golden-brown beard, a pleasant smile, and 
he has lately added to his long list of proteges a little 
boy whom he accidentally knocked over on the street 
one day, and whom he has since kept in his own house. 
He says he is going to train Teddy up to be his assistant. ’ ’ 

“ Teddy? ” interposed Lucy. “ I wonder if it could 
be my lost scholar? What is his last name? ” 

“ Daly, I think. Something like that, anyhow. Come 
to consider, I believe he has a look of that little chap 
who spent one day under your tuition. This one is clothed, 
washed, and in his right mind, though.” 

“Well, I’ll ask Jimmie McCloud what my Teddy’s 
surname is. Jimmie is quite a model now; comes every 
Sunday, and has brought in three new scholars.” 

“Yes, and they all appear to like their teacher.” 

“ Their teacher loves them,” said Lucy. 

“ Dirty faces and all? ” asked Clyde, playfully. 

Nan fell in with the subject of mission schools at once, 
especially Desmond’s Mission. She could scarcely com- 
prehend how the somewhat over-fastidious Lucy could 
be reconciled to mingling with children who were not 
always free from dirt. At school, Lucy’s views had been 
wide, but had never embraced this phase of life. She 
had not been a girl who could bestow the same caresses 


A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE. 


83 


upon a little one picked out of the gutter as upon a curled, 
white-robed darling in its mother’s arms. Nan was not 
the only one who had noticed the change in her friend. 

When the two were exchanging their little confidences 
in Lucy’s room later on, Nan asked : 

“ When am I to see your wonderful Mr. Morrison ? I 
haven’t forgotten his face, I assure you.” 

“ He never comes here now, but you’ll hear him preach 
Sunday evening. You can’t imagine how changed he is. 
Even Clyde, his closest friend, doesn’t know the reason. 
If he were a Catholic, I should believe him to be doing 
a private penance for some fault.” 

“ Perhaps he is.” 

“ Nonsense ! Dick is about the holiest, best man I 
ever heard of.” 

“But, Lucy, you haven’t said a word about Laura. 
What is she doing now ? I haven’t had a line from her 
for an age. It seems strange when we recall how intimate 
we were. I cannot reconcile myself to the thought that 
our friendship should share the fate of so many girl 
attachments. What would become of our ‘ sandwich ’ if 
one of the outside pieces should fall away.” 

“Well, Laura is another person I can’t pretend to 
fathom. She has as many moods as a chameleon. You 
heard of her aunt’s death, did you not ? ” 

“ No. Up our way news is an almost unknown com- 
modity. You said nothing about it in your letters.” 

“ Laura is teaching kindergarten, now. It is a part of 
the course of our public education, and she is an unpaid 


84 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


assistant. It is said that she has taken it up with very 
great enthusiasm. She never did do anything by halves, 
you know. We must manage in some way to get her 
back into our select companionship. We’ll visit her, 
some day.” 

Nan more than heartily concurred in her friend’s pur- 
pose, and both girls thought most earnestly how it might 
be brought about. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


A NEW START. 

The language of excitement is at best but picturesque merely. You 
must be calm before you can utter oracles. — Thoreau. 

M RS. VAN BERGH’S death had occurred quite sud- 
denly, shocking Laura into seriousness at the very 
moment when she had brought herself lo believe that the 
life of a social favorite is the wisest and best end of 
existence. After the funeral she went to her guardian’s 
— the thought of staying solitary and alone at “ Crags ” 
was distasteful to her. Once she had found that solitude 
delightful. Now, however, she could not bear the 
thought of it. She carried too many perplexing thoughts, 
and she wanted company. 

The world did not banish the heiress at once from the 
area of its interest. It could see no reason for a change 
in her mode of life. Some of her more ardent fashion- 
able friends determined there should not be if they could 
help it. She received many calls of condolence, as sin- 
cere as such usually are. 

“ As soon as your mourning is over, we shall have you 
with us again, shall we not? ” The speaker was one of 
Laura’s new intimates, a gay society belle. 

“I don’t know,” answered Laura. “I am inclined 
to think it all a delusion and a snare.” Her sober face 

85 


86 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


gave the words emphasis, and her companion went away 
thinking that grief had affected the heiress’ mind. 

Mr. Murdock found his ward in this mood more of a 
riddle than ever, and one that he was totally unable to 
solve. After a few weeks of moping, she decided that 
the country was after all the best place for her. Quite 
alone this time she went down to “ Crags. ’ ’ She could not 
bear the thought of inviting those friends of her butter- 
fly period of existence whose very presence, so teeming 
with gayety and lightness, would be uncongenial to her 
now. Lucy was at the seaside with her mother. Besides, 
she had seen very little of Lucy during the past season. 
She would have written to Nan, but the long silence 
maintained between them — her own fault, of course — 
rendered this course distasteful. One day a bright 
thought struck her, which she immediately acted upon. 
Miss Worthington, now, as Laura knew, at leisure during 
her vacation, was written to, and immediately accepted 
the invitation. Laura looked forward to her coming 
with eager anticipation. She had so much to tell her, 
and on so many points she wanted her advice. It is a 
most helpful factor in any girl’s life to have a teacher to 
whom she can appeal for sympathy and aid. Certainly 
it was a blessing to one situated as our heiress was. 

Miss Worthington’, arrival was a happy moment to 
both her and her pupil. Laura could not help the 
tears coming when she remembered with what different 
eyes she had looked at things when enjoying that good 
woman’s confidence. It was not long before Miss 


A NEW START. 


87 


Worthington was in possession of all the circumstances 
of her former pupil’s life since their parting. One 
thing Laura held back — the overheard conversation that 
brought forth such results. She did not analyze closely 
her reasons for this. If she had she might have dis- 
covered something that would have furnished food for 
more serious thought than any that had yet suggested 
itself to her. But it was sufficient reason that the imputa- 
tions appeared so unjust that the very remembrance of 
them made her cheeks flame. 

Palliating as far as possible her father’s crime, she 
gave Miss Worthington an outline of the story which 
might ultimately deprive her of her fortune. 

“Will you have nothing, Laura, if you succeed in 
finding these heirs and restoring to them their own ? ” 

“ Mr. Murdock says “ Crags ” is mine from my mother. 
Besides, my father’s efforts doubled the original sum in 
the tin box. My guardian says that sharing it would be 
quite enough restitution to make. But I sometimes feel 
that perhaps I must sacrifice it all.” 

“ You may be right. Perhaps, though, they may never 
appear. These Waltons may be dead.” 

“ I fear so at times, and my father’s hope of making 
restitution will then be left unfulfilled.” 

“ Did the detectives trace them at all? ” 

“ Yes, they found out that the wife had married again, 
but finally went away, widowed a second time. Some 
of her neighbors thought she started for California. No 
one was sure. A son was born to her and her second 


88 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


husband. The first husband’s son was a wild boy, they 
said, and had run away at an earlier period.” 

“A curious tale. Doesn’t it seem wonderful that 
after all these years one can even trace as far as you have 
done?” 

‘ Yes, but now we are at fault.” 

“Did you ever think, Laura,” asked Miss Worthing- 
ton, ‘ ‘ what you would do if called upon to give up every 
cent of your fortune? ” 

“The real possibility, I am afraid, never occurred to 
me.” 

“ But it might happen. These heirs of John Walton, 
if found, might drag your father’s name in the dust, and 
take from you everything. They might make no allow- 
ance for the terrible temptation to which he yielded. 
As the price of their silence, they might strip you of all 
your possessions. The passion for wealth is so rapacious. 
It may be with these, and having the prospect of so much 
they may demand all.” 

“ They would not be so cruel — they could not. Why, 
if I did not choose to follow out my father’s desires, 
they would never know at all.” 

“Ah, yes! But you have chosen, and they will 
know. I would not have you draw back. You cannot 
do otherwise than you are doing and be yourself. But it 
is a good thing for us to face the worst that could hap- 
pen, and then in a measure we are prepared for it.” 

They had many such conversations. Miss Worthing- 
ton was a great exponent of the idea that every young 


A NEW START. 


89 


woman should be trained in some special line of work. 
Laura readily fell in with her opinions, and decided to 
perfect herself in some branch of practical labor, that 
should her great wealth be taken from her, she need not 
be perfectly helpless. 

“There was that girl in Jean Ingelow’s * Oif the 
Skelligs,’ ” she observed. “ She learned wood engrav- 
ing, but I know I would never have the patience to try 
that. And I know the horrors would possess me if I 
were obliged to drum scales and runs into unwilling little 
fingers, as a music teacher.” 

“You might be a school teacher.” 

“ I am not wise enough, dear Miss Worthington. I 
might go into a store.” 

“Why, Laura, you would lose your health at once. 
Besides, you couldn’t live on four dollars a week.” 

“ Others do, don’t they? You know I always wanted 
to find the true ‘ins and outs’ of a working girl’s life.” 

“Some day you may be called upon to do so. At 
present, what do you think of studying the kindergarten 
system ? Being rich, you need not take the salary offered 
assistants. You could donate it to the cause.” 

“ Lovely ! Miss Worthington, you are the queen of 
advisers. I always longed to do something of that kind. 
Mrs. Cooper is one of my heroines.” 

Miss Worthington let Laura’s enthusiasm vent itself to 
the fullest extent in words before she explained the de- 
tails of the plan. Perhaps some of the dryer stages of 
accomplishing the knowledge required put a damper at 


90 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


first upon Laura’s ecstacies. She liked to jump at things 
quickly, with no stupid “ isms ” to come between. Her 
musical knowledge and talent, with her great love for 
children, made this suggestion of becoming a kindergar- 
ten worker more welcome to her than any other sugges- 
tion Miss Worthington might have offered. That clever 
woman, who understood girl nature so thoroughly, felt 
satisfied with the result of her advice. 

Laura rejoiced that she had invited her old teacher at 
just the time when her mind was ripe for her counsel- 
ings. When Miss Worthington returned to her school, 
Laura was herself again, quite a contrast to the morbid, 
wretched individual who had sought “ Crags ” the week 
before. She began at once to acquire the learning neces- 
sary for her projected labors. She entered into it with 
all the enthusiasm and thoroughness of her nature. She 
did so as much as though all her means of support were 
going to depend upon it. For anything she knew they 
would. 

Mr. Murdock was quite willing for his ward to embark 
in anything that would re-establish her peace of mind. 
When she began, after her graduation, by throwing her- 
self into Mr. Morrison’s work, he considered it but a 
passing whim, which would soon work itself out. In his 
time, girls had been content to let their brothers and 
fathers see the practical parts of life outside. In relig- 
ious matters, women confined themselves mainly to dis- 
tributing tracts. He had once suggested this to Laura, 
but she was extremely indignant. “ God did not endow 


A NEW START. 


91 


us with souls only,” she exclaimed. “ He gave hearts 
and bodies too. The poor, starved bodies of these mis- 
erable creatures must be looked after first. We must 
enter their hearts before we can discover to them the fact 
that they have souls. ’ ’ 

Then, all at once, soon after avowing these fine senti- 
ments, Mr. Murdock was astonished to see Miss Macy 
veer completely around, change her lofty opinions, let- 
ting the poor people take care of their own bodies, hearts 
and souls, and she herself start in for a season of society. 
He did not know what to make of his ward, who now 
went the pace as rapidly as the most avowed votary of 
pleasure. This third change of base was surely distract- 
ing ; but so long as Miss Laura kept within the bounds 
of propriety, he felt called upon to protect her opinions. 
He had great confidence in her integrity of character. 
Her principles, he felt sure, were firm and true. He was 
considerably bewildered by her somewhat rapid social 
oscillations. But as to her ultimately coming out all 
right he had no doubt whatever, and he stood by her. 


CHAPTER XV 


SOME OF JOHN DALE’S WORK. 

Every man’s work pursued steadily tends to become an end in it- 
self, and so to bridge over the loveless chasms in his life. — George 
Eliot. 

J OHN DALE has only appeared fitfully thus far on 
these pages, like a will-o’-the-wisp; his name on 
everybody’s lips, himself a stranger. Personally he im- 
pressed one as a monument of strength. He was not 
the kind of man one would fancy as having been the 
victim of a habit, and that habit, opium. He was a tall 
young fellow, slender of frame, yet with a breadth in the 
chest and shoulders that one generally accords to the 
athlete. While he was never ill, only he himself knew 
what inroads the vicious courses he had followed in his 
early manhood had made upon his stock of health. As 
he looked back upon that life, he loathed it. It could 
never seem to him but a dream, as many repentant sin- 
ners say their former lives appear. 

When John Dale was sent out from the hospital a cured 
man, he found his mind had undergone as complete a 
change as his body. Dr. Thorne had given him a few 
lifts morally, but none to bring him into intimate com- 
munion with Christ. The doctor had not come quite to 
the believing point himself. However, Dale did not for 
92 


SOME OF JOHN DALEYS WORK. 


93 


a moment harbor the idea that it was one’s mere circum- 
stances that had brought him within Clyde’s notice first, 
and then under the other’s influence. “ There is some- 
thing at the bottom of it all,” he said. Then one of 
the hospital nurses, a true Christian worker, began to talk 
to him. Gradually, lessons he had learned in his boyish 
days came back to his memory, lessons learned from a 
praying mother. The nurse told him of Christ. He 
was in a softened, receptive mood. He believed. 

“Go, and sin no more,” was the command to the 
penitent. John Dale obeyed. In fact, the desire to sin 
had passed away. All the billows having rolled over 
him, he was left pure in every purpose of his soul. The 
scars of the past remained, but only as scars. The first 
thing John did, upon learning the wonderful secret of 
happiness, was to impart it to Dr. Thorne. 

“I wish I could believe as you do, Dale,” said the 
latter. “ But I can’t. I’m a doubter.” 

“‘An honest doubter.’ You know the old saying, 
doctor.” 

“ Yes, I know it. But that doesn’t alter my case.” 

“Iam going to pray for you.” 

“ Do, my boy. But I can’t think that prayer will do 
any good. What I try to do is to work out all I can 
honestly believe, and let the rest go.” 

“ God understands.” John spoke from sincere con- 
viction. 

Discharged cured, the young man looked out for 
work of both kinds. It came, and in the same place. 


94 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


The doctor found his protege a position as assistant su- 
perintendent^ a mine in Northern California. There 
John met Dr. Dallas, and his life’s work began. He 
was first among the miners, the builders of the little 
church of which Dr. Dallas was pastor. In such an er- 
ratic, knock-about life, it is not at all likely that John 
had become highly educated. He was thus just the style 
of man to appeal to a rough miner’s heart. There is no 
class of men more generously inclined than these miners. 
Their hearts are naturally much softer, than those of people 
living in a big city, where money-getting is a hardening 
process. As John labored among these men, he became 
more and more attached to them, and they to him. They 
would almost rather hear his little “talks” than those 
of their adored Dr. Dallas. 

“I am positively getting jealous,” said the latter, 
laughingly, one day. 

“ You don’t need to, sir,” was the answer. “ But you 
don’t know what a boon it is to me — so lately a wretched 
outcast — to feel that there is some one now who really 
cares whether I live or die.” 

In the meanwhile, John was devoting his spare mo- 
ments to gaining culture. He read with Dr. Dallas, who 
superintended his studies. Nan, after her return from 
boarding school, gave him additional help. She said 
she had never met so ambitious a pupil before. He never 
attempted to shirk a task, nor did one appear too difficult 
for him to master. 

“ Making up for lost time,” was his own explanation. 


SOME OF JOHN DALEYS WORK. 


95 


Together, he and Nan established classes in elocution 
and singing, free to all those who would join. John sup- 
plied the voice — he was the possessor of a magnificent 
baritone — and Nan the cultivation and method. Her 
own voice was a rather weak, though sweet mezzo-soprano. 
There is no question that the miners and their families 
enjoyed these classes. You may imagine the blessings 
the Dallases had brought to this camp, when one consid- 
ers that before their advent there had been in this section 
no schools, no church, no culture of any kind, and no 
outside communication, save perhaps a week-old daily 
newspaper from San Francisco. 

Upon Nan’s return from school she had been aston- 
ished at the even greater improvements that had been 
made in her absence. 

“ Why, father, the saloon has gone ! ” she exclaimed, 
as they walked home from the station. 

“Yes, Nan. Thank God.” 

“ How did you do it, father ? ” 

“ How can you ask ? Hasn’t it been your mother’s 
and my constant prayer ever since we came here? Last 
week, the miners finally voted for its closure. Jake, shut 
off from their patronage, decided to shut up shop at 
once.” 

“ Where has he gone? ” asked Nan. “I’m sorry that 
we have lost that pretty little girl of his.” 

“ We haven’t lost her,” returned her father. “ Lowndes 
was called back East by the death of an aunt, who left 
him a farm there, and had to sell his grocery store here. 


96 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


Jake bought him out, and is therefore still a prominent 
citizen of Fern Ridge. Better than that, he comes to 
church now and then, and seems somewhat interested. 
Liquor is responsible for much more harm than seems to 
belong to it directly. I have strong hopes of Jake and a 
good many others now.” 

“ How lovely ! ” said Nan. “ Oh, father, the longer 
I live, the more I am impressed with the truthfulness of 
the declaration that God’s ways are past finding out.” 

John Dale had been a prime factor in the closing of 
that saloon. He had never been a drinker himself, and 
could not talk temperance from his own experience. But 
he had been worse ; and at first it was hard for him to 
make the miners understand how much worse. He had 
called newspapers, magazine articles, and photographs 
to his aid, until finally he had impressed every man 
with the horrors of the consequences incident to opium 
smoking. 

“But that ain’t whisky,” said one of the men, one 
day. “There ain’t no comparison between the two 
things.” 

“ They are both habits,” returned John. 

“ Well, we have to treat our friends sometime or other. 
There ain’t no easier way as I knows on than ‘ Have a 
glass?”’ 

Probably there is not a place on the globe where the 
“ treating ” system, this “ Come in and take something,” 
has grown to such huge proportions as in California. 
Perhaps it is the fault of the “ days of ’49,” when houses 


SOME OF JOHN DALEYS WORK. 


97 


were scarce, good women more so, and saloons the only- 
inviting and luxurious places to spend an evening in. It 
is hard to preach temperance where its needs are not yet 
felt. However, let the work go on. In time it will 
gain a foothold, as will the Sunday law, now in force, to 
some extent at least, in almost every large Eastern city, 
though entirely ignored in California. 

John’s bold and bright arguments finally made head- 
way in the minds of Fern Ridge’s male inhabitants. 
The women gave him all the aid in their power. As you 
know, Jake, the saloon’s proprietor, changed his trade. 
He was not the loser thereby. Men dropped in to see 
him, and bought peanuts for the children instead of 
whisky for themselves. Unlike those in Eastern cities, 
the village druggist was not obliged to lay in a large sup- 
ply of alcoholic “ medicine,” to supply a long-felt 
want. When the miners renounced anything, they gave 
it up for good. 

Jake laid in a supply of the best coffee, and the Fern 
Ridge people created a new reputation for themselves — 
that of “the champion coffee drinkers ” of the section. 

John Dale, in all his labors, was animated by a pur- 
pose. “ Do unto others,” and unto him much had been 
given. Only once did he feel a desire to retrograde — 
the reader knows how the temptation was frustrated by 
the prayers and efforts of the Dallas family. At present 
he did his best in the place appointed. 

“Sometime I must do more,” he said to his pastor. 
“ I feel that I must tell the world about that wretched 

G 


98 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


class of people among whom my lot was so long thrown. 
I have not the education to become a preacher, but I 
can write a book, perhaps. Let me study — and wait. 
It is no credit to me that I have the personal experience 
which makes words so powerful. But since I have the 
experience, I ought to make it serve me and help others. 
I am going to try, anyway. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER XVI. 


A LITTLE LEAVEN. 


There is only one failure in life possible ; and that is, not to be 
true to the best one knows. — Canon Farrar. 



NIP, snap ! Chatter, chatter ! 


w What a noise a few girls can make when they are 
gathered together in one room ! These were sewing 
away very busily, making garments for the tiny invalids 
at the Children’s Hospital, and for the poor little ones 
attending the city kindergartens. Nowadays, the girls 
are all charitably inclined, and if it is not kindergartens 
and hospitals that take up their time, it is flower missions 
and infant shelters, or some enterprise of that nature. 
These girls all belonged to what is termed “ the Society 
Set,” but if one only investigated he would find a vast 
amount of good in what at first appears a mere group of 
frivolous, empty rattlepates. Severe Christians are often 
too ready to condemn the more worldly members of 
their church, forgetting that Christ named the chief 
virtue, charity. “Judge not, that ye be not judged,” is 
a solemn warning, and one that will bear a more faithful 
illustration from many who perhaps would think them- 
selves guiltless in this regard. 

Jean Douglas spoke first, all needles suspended in 


99 


100 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


the air, while she voiced a question : “ Heard the 
latest ? ’ * 

“ No, what is it? ” 

“ Laura Macy has gone to teaching regularly in a kin- 
dergarten.” 

“No, really? She’ll be after us for aprons, then, 
won’t she? ” 

“ Very likely, though she is rich enough to buy aprons 
for every kindergarten in existence.” 

“ I like Laura, she is so clever.” 

“ Yes, indeed. But what do you think is Lucy Rath- 
bone’s latest fad? Not content with taking a class in 
Mr. Desmond’s mission school, I hear she has regularly 
adopted ten of her scholars — gives them their clothes, 
you know, and everything.” 

“ Boys or girls? ” 

“ Boys — regular little ragamuffins.” 

“ The idea ! What a notion ! ” 

The door opened and the subject of their remarks 
entered, accompanied by one whom she introduced as 
“ Miss Dallas.” 

“What’s the news?” asked Lucy, after seating her- 
self, and taking out her sewing materials. 

“We hear Miss Lucy Rathbone has become a saint.” 

Lucy laughed heartily. She was not one of those who 
take offense easily. 

“ Now, say, girls,” she remarked. “ Do I look a fit 
subject for canonization?” 

“ Not with those cheeks,” said Nan. 


A LITTLE LEAVEN. 


101 


Then the girls began to talk all at once : 44 Is it really 
true?” “ From the mission school? ” 44 Beggar boys.” 
4 Why didn’t you take girls?” “What did you, ever 
do it for?” And so on, and on. When they finally 
paused to recover their breath, Lucy asked : 

44 Where shall I begin ? What do you want to 
know ? ” 

“At the beginning, of course. We want all the ‘ins 
and outs,’ and how you first came to conceive such a 
project.” 

“It’s not much of a story,” Lucy began. “At 
boarding school we had a lovely teacher who showed us 
the meaning of a true Christian life. Nan, Laura Macy, 
and I began to take broader views of humanity. At 
least, I did. Nan always was imbued with a missionary 
spirit. Then when I came home, of course I began by 
taking a class in the Sunday-school. I haven’t given up 
my girls now, remember, and I like them exceedingly ; 
but, do you know, I almost think I might as well talk to 
so many sticks of wood as to those eight proper, well- 
bred, well-dressed little maids. 

4 4 In the first place, they regard me very much as if I 
was one of themselves. Some days, when I think I have 
deliveied a very telling address, and perhaps made some 
impression upon their stony little hearts, Lila Jones will 
speak up and say : 4 Oh, Miss Rathbone ! Excuse me 
for interrupting you, but are you going to the charity 
kettledrum ? ’ or else Belle Barton will remark, 4 Beg 
pardon, but will you tell me where you bought those 


102 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


lovely gloves ? ’ or Grace Ogilvie will want to know how 
I enjoyed the last symphony concert. Of course I do my 
best to check such nonsense, but sometimes it will come 
out.” 

“Well,” put in Jean, at this juncture, “we used to 
do the same in our infant days. Don’t you remember 
how discouraged poor Miss Parker used to look, some- 
times?” 

“Yes,” added one of the other girls. “And see, 
here we are sober and staid church-members now. ’ ’ 

“ I know you’re right,” said Lucy, “ but I hoped my 
girls would be different, somehow; and they weren’t, not 
a bit. That is why I was so eager to help Mr. Desmond 
at his school. It seemed as if I had at last made a 
beginning at being good for something.” 

“As if you weren’t good enough before. Why, Lucy 
Rathbone, what do you call being good for something ? 
What do you call this work we are engaged upon now ? ’ ’ 

“ I know,” said Lucy, in reply to this whirlwind ; “ we 
make clothes for the kindergarten children, and fancy 
work to sell for their benefit, and give what remains to 
no end of worthy causes; but to me that doesn’t seem 
enough. Since I left school, I haven’t accomplished 
anything, and I meant to do so much. What does joining 
the church mean if one isn’t willing to work for one’s 
Master ? ’ ’ 

“Now, don’t be a prig, Lucy, nor a preacher,” re- 
plied Jean. “ Don’t you imagine we know our duty to 
God as well as you do yours ? ’ 1 


A LITTLE LEAVEN. 


103 


“Why, of course,” Lucy replied. “That’s what I 
meant to say. For myself, I found I could do more 
than I had been doing, and must attend to it.” 

“That’s all right,” said one of the other girls, who 
had been silent during the entire conversation, “I wish 
you would take me to that mission, Lucy. Such work 
would just suit me.” 

“Me, too,” said another girl, and then another, until 
all, even Jean, had pleaded to be taken there the next 
Sunday. Lucy was glad enough to accept the girls’ 
proffers of help, and Nan hardly knew what to make of 
it all. This explains the large influx of assistants at the 
mission the following Sunday. 

After the excitement had somewhat subsided, Jean 
suggested : 

“After all, Lucy, you didn’t tell us how you came to 
adopt those boys.” 

“ What boys ? ” 

“ We heard you had adopted the ten youths composing 
your class, and were preparing to look after them for the 
rest of their natural lives.” 

“ How silly ! Where did you hear such a story? ” 

“ It came by a little bird, you know, the usual way in 
which such news flies. Isn’t it true ? ” 

“ Make the ten one, and then call it protection, not 
adoption, and you would be nearer the solution.” 

“Really? Isn’t it curious what tales one has brought 
to her, expecting her instant acceptance? ” 

“One of Laura’s former proteges, and also one of 


104 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


Mr. Morrison’s, was left an orphan, so the latter asked 
me to look after him once in a while. Laura gave Mr. 
Morrison the money to pay for the boy’s board and 
lodging for some years to come, or until he is able to 
support himself. I took him into my Sunday-school 
class, and weekdays look after his stockings and his 
buttons. That is all.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


A DISCOVERY. 

Growing thought makes growing revelation. — George Eliot. 

N AN’S stay in the city necessarily had to be short, 
therefore Lucy wished to crowd as many delights 
into it as possible. One whole day was given up to a 
visit to Miss Worthington and the school where they had 
gained their most prized instruction. From the principal 
they learned more of Laura than they could have gleaned 
from any other source. Miss Worthington impressed 
upon them the duty of trying to draw the heiress again 
into intimacy. 

“ She works too hard, I know,” she explained. “ And 
while the change is good for her mind, if she is not 
careful her health will suffer. Laura always ran to 
extremes in her schemes, you remember.” 

The two girls took Miss Worthington’s words to heart, 
and the next day dropped in upon Laura at the scene of 
her labors. They chose the noon hour, that they might 
find her at leisure and so enjoy a chat. Laura was un- 
disguisedly rejoiced to see them. It seemed to her ages 
since they three had sworn eternal comradeship. At 
first their talk was about their old schoolmates. Even a 
year of absence or separation places past circumstances 
in the light of “old times.” Lucy and Nan, knowing 

105 


106 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


their call must be limited, were anxious to pass to the sub- 
ject of Laura’s work. They noticed that she looked less 
blooming than formerly — her whole frame had a fagged- 
out look. Kindergarten teaching is perhaps the most 
trying to the instructor of any phase of school work. 

“I love it,” said Laura. “It is not in the least 
drudgery to me. Then, in accepting the position of 
assistant I knew I was not defrauding anybody who 
really needed a position. One could not live upon the 
salary attached to the office. The principal is a lovely 
woman, and I learn new lessons of patience and charity 
from her every day.” 

The principal came in afterward and Nan and Lucy 
made her acquaintance. She was a sweet little blonde, 
doing a large amount of good in an unostentatious way. 
I consider all teachers in the free kindergartens as 
heroines. They work hard, much harder than an ordi- 
nary school-teacher, and even the highest pay is less than 
that given to a novice in the other departments. Their 
labors are not even over after school hours, for then they 
are expected to visit certain of their charges at their 
homes and report to the society about the conditions of 
things they find there. Yes, indeed, they are worthy of 
admiration. 

When one o’clock struck, the mites trooped in, some 
of them looking as if a breath of wind would blow 
them over, poverty and ill health being plainly written 
upon their pinched faces. All were fairly clean — clean- 
liness being a quality insisted upon at all these child 


A DISCOVERY. 


107 


gardens. The principal had them go through a number 
of their games for the visitors, something the little ones 
liked immensely. When the regular routine began, Nan 
and Lucy said good-bye, Laura making them promise 
that they would come and spend the following day with 
her, it being Saturday, a holiday. 

Mr. Murdock’s housekeeper was almost hilaiious, and 
in her excitement lost every one of her commas, when 
Laura told her that she might expect company to lunch. 

“ I’m glad enough to hear it,” she said. “ It’s nice 
to think that we’ll have some young ladies in the house; 
for lonesome enough it is with you: gone all day and no 
callers.” 

Nan and Lucy came early. They still retained a 
school-girl fondness for being invited out to a luncheon, 
which is, unless the property of a dyspeptic, a dissipation 
the feminine heart is always pleased to enjoy to the 
fullest extent. 

“ By the way,” said Laura, in the course of their con- 
versation. “ Guess whom I had the pleasure of meeting 
the other day? ” 

“Dick Morrison? But no, that wouldn’t be at all 
out of the common. Are you good at guessing, Nan ? 
I never was. You might as well tell us at once, Laura.” 

“It was Dr. Thorne. Mr. Morrison, you remember, 
used to talk about him all the time, extolling his virtues, 
you know, yet regretting that he was an unbeliever.” 

“ He isn’t, is he ? ” asked Nan. “ John doesn’t think 
so.” 


108 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


“He says the doctor talks very differently from what 
he used to. He has his own and independent way of 
looking at and stating things, but he thinks he does 
accept the essential truth of Christianity. He believes 
that he will come out all right if he is not already.” 

“ Speaking of unbelievers, I came across these two 
thoughts the other day,” said Laura. “ They are some- 
what alike. Let me read them to you. ’ ’ She took up a 
little book in which she jotted down any sentences or 
sentiments that happened to impress her as worth retain- 
ing in the course of her readings. “This is number 
one : ‘ The way to get rid of doubts in religion is to go 
to work with all our might and practise what we don't 
doubt ; and that you can do, whatever your calling or 
occupation.’ And this, number two : ‘Try to put well 
in practice what you already know ; in so doing you will 
in good time, discover the hidden things which you now 
inquire about.’ The former is from Mrs. Stowe’s book,. 
‘ My Wife and I.’ The latter is a bit of the wisdom of 
Rembrandt. ’ ’ 

“ Did you always read books in that way, Laura? I 
mean, picking out the best from them, and keeping it 
in your note-book ? ’ ’ Lucy asked this, for she only 
skipped through books herself, leaving out the dry parts, 
and not getting much good out of her reading when all 
was told. 

“Not always,” answered Laura, smiling. “When I 
first began to enjoy the knowledge that I could read 
without having to spell the hard words aloud, I preferred 


A DISCOVERY. 


109 


fairy tales, because they were all plot and no conversa- 
tion. When I came to higher reading, I fancy I cared 
for nothing but the story. Then, when at school we 
studied literature, I read critically, caring for nothing in 
my books but the author’s style. If it was too didactic 
or was at all slipshod, indicating either carelessness or 
ignorance, I cast the book aside, unread. Now I am 
wiser, I look always for the thoughts of the writer. 
Those I like I copy out in my little book. I always 
loved to linger over my dessert, you know. ’ ' 

Nan had been thinking. 

“ Do you know, Laura,” she said, when the latter had 
ended her little explanation, I think after that little 
bit of Mrs. Stowe’s philosophy, one can understand 
better the meaning of working out one’s own salvation ? ” 

“ Yes. In my own case I found that working in a 
good cause brought renewed faith in the cause itself.” 

“ Would you think me impertinent, Laura, if I asked 
you what caused that sudden change in you — when you 
left all your projects for your proteges unfinished and 
started in upon your career in society ? ’ ’ Nan asked 
this question. 

“ Dick Morrison told Clyde Desmond that he felt 
quite crushed one day when he called upon you, and was 
treated as if he was a callow youth, just introduced,” 
added Lucy. 

Laura blushed. “ Did he say that ? ” she asked. 

“ Well, it may not have been exactly those words, but 
something to the same effect.” 


110 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


Laura was saved the trouble of explaining, for lunch- 
eon was announced, and for the next hour their talk 
reverted to old times, and precluded unpleasant per- 
sonalities. 

Among other topics, John Dale was mentioned. 

“ Isn’t it curious ? ” said Nan. “ His name isn’t Dale 
at all. I never knew it until the day I left home.” 

“ What is it? ” asked Lucy. 

“ It is Walton. You know he had a stepfather, and 
took his name.” 

Laura started when Nan mentioned the name of 
Walton. She had been treated to a number of false 
alarms in regard to the name, but each time she thought 
herself on the verge of a discovery. She would question 
Nan, anyhow. The conjunction of a stepfather might 
be only a curious coincidence. 

Nan. always ready to talk about John Dale — or 
Walton, perhaps, one should call him now — was glad to 
find a ready listener in Laura. Everything in regard to 
John’s life that she knew she poured into the heiress’ ears. 
The latter was pretty sure she was on the right track at 
last, but resolved to keep her suspicions to herself until 
they were verified. Only three persons knew anything 
about the matter — Miss Worthington, Mr. Murdock, and 
herself. The detectives had merely worked at Mr. Mur- 
dock’s bidding, but were quite in the dark as to the 
reason of the man’s being wanted. Nan only thought 
Laura an appreciative admirer of John’s nobility, and 
Lucy was not listening at all. She had heard it all many 


A DISCOVERY. 


Ill 


times, and truth to say, was slightly weary of hearing the 
virtues extolled of a youth she had never seen. 

Laura had little doubt now but that she was on the 
eve of discovering what she had long sought. She was 
glad that she could now fulfill her father’s behests. But 
she could not help having some anxiety, and wondering 
what the result would be to herself. She was no less de- 
termined, however, to do right, let the result be to her 
what it might. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


A BUSY SUNDAY. 

The chief want in life is somebody who shall make us do the best 
we can. — E merson. 

I T was a rainy morning in early December, the day fol- 
lowing Laura’s luncheon. Outside, the sidewalks 
were damp, the atmosphere heavy with mist, and the 
patter of the rain made sober music upon the window 
panes. In the Rathbone dining room, all was cheer- 
ful. The family was gathered around the breakfast table, 
upon which a dainty meal of beefsteak, Saratoga chips, 
coffee, and hot rolls, was waiting to be eaten. 

Only Lawrence looked in any way out of harmony 
with the surroundings. 

“ I think it horrid to be routed out of bed at this un- 
earthly hour,” he grumbled. “ Don’t you, Miss Dallas ? ” 
Nan smiled ; but his father pointed to the clock, upon 
the dial of which the hands indicated nine. 

“Unearthly? What do you call that?” he asked, 
patting the cheek of the scowling lad. 

“Bad enough to have to get up in time for church,” 
he grumbled again, “without having to rise an hour 
earlier, so that Lu can go to a new Sunday-school.” 

“Well, it is only for once,” observed Mrs. Rathbone, 
in a pacifying tone. “ I myself, Miss Dallas, do not 
112 


A BUSY SUNDAY. 


113 


consider it a good plan for Lucy to turn the day of rest 
into a day of toil.” 

“But, mamma,” deprecated Lucy, “Mr. Morrison 
asked me, and you know the old saying : ‘ It is better to 
wear out than rust out. ’ ’ ’ 

“ That is a wicked maxim,” now observed Mr. Rath- 
bone; “and has done more harm than can easily be 
remedied. ‘ The Sabbath was made for man, and not 
man for the Sabbath. ’ You must not think for a mo- 
ment, Lucy, that it is right for you to let your spirit run 
away with your health. Here is another saying quite as 
good as your own : ‘ The spirit is willing, but the flesh 
is weak.’ ” 

“I know, papa; but this is only for a trial. If I find 
my health failing under so many tasks, I will give up one 
school, at least. And there was not the slightest need 
of changing the breakfast hour. I could easily have pre- 
pared my own and Nan’s.” 

“ There is another thing,” said Mrs. Rathbone. “I 
didn’t like to speak about it before, but now we are 
started, I might as well. I don’t approve of your going 
down into that horrid quarter of the town, searching for 
that little boy’s home. No one knows what terrible ac- 
cident might befall you there, nor what diseases you 
might catch.” 

“ Poor Teddy ! I fear it is a hopeless task, and that 
I will never find him.” 

“Say, Miss Dallis,” interrupted Charlie, “don’t you 
know Lucy started in to provide suits of clothes for all 

H 


114 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


those kids ? I offered her my cane for one, so that he 
he might be in style .’ 7 

“ And I proposed giving Jimmie my gold watch,” said 
Lawrence. 

Lucy was used to this style of raillery, and had become 
so inured to it that she did not mind it. To Nan, used 
to the sympathy of all those at home in everything she 
undertook, it seemed strange. The whole controversy 
had to do with nothing at all save a new mission school. 
Clyde’s and two others had proved such successes, that 
the church had decided to start still another, in the west 
end of the town, not many blocks from Lucy’s home. 
With others, she had been asked to assist in its estab- 
lishment. Nearly all the week, she and Nan had been 
out canvassing for scholars ; and the former had appeared 
so wearied at the end of her labors, that her parents had 
been obliged to warn her that she was tasking her strength 
far beyond its endurance. Lucy rather agreed with them, 
but not being blessed with meekness, she hated to give 
in at once. 

That day, which was to be the last of Nan’s visit, the 
morning was spent in visiting the new school and in at- 
tending church. Then came the home school, Lucy 
teaching her girls, and Nan “ substituting ” in the infant 
class. For the first time in months Laura remained for 
Sunday-school. That she wanted to catch another 
glimpse of Nan, was her reason. She usually found her- 
self too wearied after the week’s work to take in more 
than the church service on Sundays. In the afternoon, 


A BUSY SUNDAY. 


115 


the three girls went down to Clyde’s mission. How 
Nan enjoyed that ! 

“ Isn’t that grand? ” she whispered to Mr. Morrison, 
when the children’s voices rang out in their favorite : 
“When the Lord to Bethany Came.” “ They sing as 
if they comprehended every word, and rejoiced in it as 
well. What influence these hymns alone will have on 
their lives none can tell.” 

The young minister and Nan were as well acquainted 
as if they had lived next door to each other for years. 
Clyde had introduced them, and Dick had come out of 
his seclusion sufficiently to resume his old intercourse 
with the Rathbones. Meeting Laura to-day seemed but 
another link to the chain drawing him back to his friends 
and happiness. He felt exceedingly grateful to Nan, 
regarding her as the prime agent in the transforma- 
tion. 

“Isn’t it horrid?” exclaimed Lucy, on their way 
home. “Nan goes home to-morrow. I’ll miss her aw- 
fully. You can’t imagine how nice it is to have a friend 
always near to tell things to and get her sympathy.” 

“ What is the matter with me ? ” asked Clyde, hearing 
but a part of the complaint, as he stepped up at this 
juncture. “ I thought we were pretty good friends by 
this time.” 

“So we are,” returned Lucy. “But how could any- 
body make up for Nan ? ” 

“ You had better try me,” he said. “ Maybe I would 
do better than you think.” 


116 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


“ You are well enough in your place,” she retorted, as 
she smiled pleasantly on him, “ but your place isn’t 
Nan’s.” 

In the evening they all attended the young people’s 
meeting, and afterward church. It had been a long, 
busy day. 

“ You can’t keep this up every Sunday,” said Nan, as 
they sat talking and brushing their hair before going to 
bed that night, exchanging those confidences and in- 
dulging in that pleasant talk that all girls love so 
well. 

“Why not? Are you going to join the opposition 
too? I seem to be pretty well, don’t I ? I am inclined 
to think that it agrees with me. Give me a reason for 
your opinion.” 

“You aren’t strong enough, for one reason,” was the 
answer. “You may and do seem well enough, but the 
continuous strain, you will find, will undermine your 
health if you are not careful. I couldn’t stand it myself, 
and I am much more used to such work than you, 
Lucy.” 

“Well, I know it,” assented her friend. “But now, 
honestly, Nan, do you think it would be right for me to 
do any less ? ” 

“ Certainly. You must remember, my dear, that your 
body is not your own. It belongs to him who bought 
you. Oughtn’t you to take the best of care of it ? ” 

Lucy nodded her head. Nan was just the sort of per- 
son to make such matters clear. 


A BUSY SUNDAY. 


117 


“ One reason, you said. Have you another, Miss 
Prudence ? * * 

“Well, that one is sufficient; but I have another, if 
you want it. In the multiplicity of work the quality is 
apt to suffer. ‘The little farm well tilled,’ you remem- 
ber, my dear. Many irons fail in the fire because there 
are too many of them. Have I preached enough? ” 

“ Well, it is good sense if you have, and I’ll take heed 
to my ways.” 

After this, Lucy contented herself with teaching in two 
Sunday-schools, much to her parents’ approbation. Nan’s 
visit brought forth more good results than she could even 
have imagined, much less foretold. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


DR. THORNE VISITS JOHN. 


You must desire first to become good. That is the first and great 
end of life. That is what God sent you into the world for. — Charles 
Kingsley. 

HEY missed Nan immensely at Fern Ridge. Jennie 



T Lacy and John, aided by Dr. and Mrs. Dallas, did 
the best they could to take her place, but somehow some- 
thing seemed lacking. They were glad when they re- 
ceived a letter from her, saying she would surely be at 
home the following week. 

Nan was to be at home on Tuesday. On Monday, 
John Dale received a visitor. He was sitting in his little 
office, looking over his accounts, when a form darkened 
the doorway. Looking up, he perceived the manly fea- 
tures and frame of Dr. Thorne. 

“ How are you getting along, Dale ? ” said the doctor, 
as the men shook hands. 

“ Splendidly. How are you ? ” 

“Well, I wasn’t feeling at my best; so I thought I’d 
knock off work for a bit. and take a week’s holiday. On 
Wednesday I must return.’’ 

“I’m glad you chose Fern Ridge to spend your vaca- 
tion in. You’re a man I’m always more than happy to 


see. 


» > 


118 


DR. THORNE VISITS JOHN. 


119 


“ Thanks. That’s the way I feel toward yourself, 
Dale.” 

One of John’s rare, brilliant smiles passed over his 
generally sober face. 

“I call you my * life-preserver,’ doctor,” he said. 

“ I’m not sure that I did entirely right in that matter,” 
observed the other. 

“ What could have been wrong? ” asked John. 

“ Perhaps I ought not to have told a lie to save you. 
It was a sort of lie, you know.” 

“ Grant that it was even so. God turned you into an 
instrument for good, and here is the result.” 

It was not a wrong feeling of pride that animated John 
Dale, as he drew himself up to his full height, and looked 
at his friend. Any one who has become a respectable 
citizen after being rescued from the gutter, will under- 
stand his thoughts as he spoke. The doctor knew what 
he meant. 

“ Say, Dale,” said the latter, suddenly, “ I’ve looked 
more into that subject we were talking of the last time 
I saw you. I think I see my way clearly a little.” 

A hearty hand-clasp was John’s answer. 

After John had finished his office work, the two men 
went out together. They stopped at the Dallases’, who 
were more than glad to become acquainted with one of 
whom they had heard so much, but had never before 
seen. It was seldom the doctor took a holiday. As a 
rule, they are rare with physicians. 

“Stay over a day, won’t you, Dr. Thorne?” asked 


120 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


Mrs. Dallas. “ I would like to have Nan meet you. She 
will be home to-morrow. ’ ’ 

“ Of course I’ll stay. You don’t imagine I came so 
many miles to see my friend Dale, just to gallop off again 
the same day? No. I remain over until to-morrow 
evening’s train.” 

Thus Nan had a chance to meet one of her heroes. 
After hearing John Dale’s story, she had put Dr. Thorne 
upon her list of great men. She was a profound hero 
worshiper. 

Mrs. Dallas had invited the doctor to dine with the 
family on Saturday. John, of course, was included in 
the invitation. When the young men arrived, Nan, ar- 
rayed in her best white gown, was in the parlor to receive 
them, while her mother gave the one servant some advice 
about dinner details. 

“This is Dr. Thorne,” said John. “And, doctor, 
this is Miss Dallas. ’ ’ 

Nan held out her hand, and was just going to give 
voice to the usual polite formula, when her face suddenly 
became flushed with a rich color. John couldn’t im- 
agine what was the matter. After the first puzzled look, 
the doctor began to understand. He had a good mem- 
ory for faces. 

“ I think Miss Dallas and I have met before,” he said, 
quietly, though an amused smile lingered about the cor- 
ners of his moustache. 

Nan could not help laughing, in spite of her embar- 
rassment. 


DR. THORNE VISITS JOHN. 


121 


“ I think we have,” she answered. “We hardly need 
shake hands this time, do we ? ” 

Then they told John about it. You have doubtless 
at once surmised that the doctor was, as Clyde Desmond 
had fancied, the hero of Nan’s street car adventure. He 
was thus invested with a double interest, as John Dale’s 
rescuer, and as the guardian of the little boy with the 
“ reminiscent ” face. 

“ Who was that little boy you had with you? ” asked 
Nan. “ I was so interested in him.” 

“ ‘ My latest,’ Clyde calls him,” answered the doctor, 
giving a brief outline of the little fellow’s history, and 
how he had come across him. As he spoke, Nan was 
turning something over and over in her mind. When 
the doctor paused, she spoke : 

“ Do you know, until now, I couldn’t fancy who it 
was your little boy reminded me of? ” 

“Well! And now?” 

“ It is John — John Dale. Those eyes — that expressive 
mouth, sad, yet strong? Don’t you see them, doctor, 
before you ? ’ ’ 

John was interested in a moment. The Fern Ridge 
people had never seen a man so fond of little boys as he. 
He knew himself why he had always had this propensity 
for tiny lads. In every one he saw his own long-ago lost 

little brother. And now 

“ Doctor,” he exclaimed, “ what is the lad’s name ? ” 
The doctor understood his friend’s excitement, and 
answered at once : 


122 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


“ It is Teddy — Teddy Daly.” 

“ Not the same,” said Nan. “And, John, I’m so 
sorry. I hoped it was . I know what you fancied.” 

“But, say, doctor, weren’t you mistaken? Daly? 
Why not Dale ? And Edward could easily be changed 
into Teddy. My step-father hated nicknames, so mother 
always called the baby by his full name. I must see that 
boy, doctor.” 

“ You shall, John, as soon as it can be accomplished.” 

So, after dinner — a dinner whose conversation was en- 
livened by all manner of conjectures about the doctor’s 
protege — they all adjourned to the Fern Ridge telegraph 
office, and the doctor sent off this message to his house- 
keeper : 

“ Send Teddy to Fern Ridge to-morrow morning, in 
James’ charge.” James was the doctor’s colored coach- 
man. 

About midnight the answer was brought to the doctor, 
who was spending the night with John Dale. 

“Teddy Daly ran away this a. m. Cannot be found.” 

“So near and yet so far,” was the doctor’s unspoken 
thought. 

“ He must be found ! ” cried John. “ I feel sure he 
is my brother.” 


CHAPTER XX. 


teddy’s flight. 

I know not where his islands lift 
Their fronded palms in air; 

I only know I cannot drift 
Beyond his love and care. 


— J. G. Whittier. 



CIVILIZATION is irksome to the untamed gamin. It 


was very nice indeed to Teddy, at first, the tooth- 
some dainties the doctor provided for his hitherto un- 
pampered palate, and the clean white bed he could rest 
in at night. He also enjoyed the little trips here and 
Ihere throughout the city upon which the doctor took 
him. For a week he luxuriated; the second week he 
took it as a matter of course ; the third week it became 
irksome ; and after that positively unbearable. During 
the doctor’s absence from the city, the little fellow found 
four walls, even when covered by pictures, something 
like a prison. He took matters into his own hands, 
and without saying good-bye to the housekeeper, ran 


away. 


How happy he felt as he rapidly made his way toward 
the southern portion of the city ! Like a linnet recently 
captured and then let loose from his cage, he merrily 
whistled a popular ditty, and, with his hands in his trou- 


123 


124 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


sers’ pockets, felt that Teddy was himself again. He 
met a lad with whom he had formerly been upon the 
most friendly terms. The latter greeted him with a 
stare, and — “ Who’s a dude now ? ” 

You see Teddy was wearing the new suit the doctor 
had given him. The housekeeper having thrown his old 
clothes away, he naturally had no choice but to retain 
these when he took his hasty departure from that hos- 
pitable mansion. 

“ I ain’t no dude. Say it again, and I’ll show yer.” 

It is needless to say the other boy said it again, and the 
“ showing yer ” began. 

In the last stage of the street fight, Teddy was found 
on top, but a sad remnant of the well-dressed boy his 
adversary had ridiculed. Not to mention his battered 
countenance, his clothes looked as if a cyclone had passed 
over them. No more could he be styled a “dude.” 
The other was satisfied. The two shook hands and were 
friends again. 

Teddy again took up the old street life. He had some 
money the doctor had given him. With it he felt like 
a bloated capitalist ; and not until he was down to his 
last nickel did he think of returning to work. With an- 
other lad of his own age, he began to sell newspapers. 
They were partners ; but even with this advantage they 
found it difficult to make a comfortable living. Perhaps 
once in a while Teddy regretted having run away. He 
never said so, either now or afterward ; but upon rainy 
mornings, especially, such a feeling would have been 


TEDDY S FLIGHT. 


125 


natural. And then there were times when the chill 
winds gave him more than a reminder of what he had 
lost. His stomach too was not always by any means 
satisfied with its fare, and it added its protest to that of 
the wind and damp. We may be sure Dr. Thorne’s 
comfortable home was sometimes regretted by Teddy. 

In the meantime, the doctor prosecuted his search. 
John could not get away from his mining work, but he 
knew the doctor would do his best. They had so little 
to work from, not even being sure of Teddy’s right name. 
“ I think he said Daly,” said the doctor. “ But I may 
easily have been mistaken.” When Clyde told Lucy 
about it, she was sure her Teddy and the doctor’s were 
one and the same, their descriptions tallied so perfectly. 

“But then,” objected Clyde, “you know Teddy is 
far from being an uncommon name. And blue eyes are 
to be found everywhere.” 

“I know,” assented Lucy. “I wish Dr. Thorne 
would come to the mission some Sunday and talk to 
Jimmie McCloud. He might be able to get information 
from him that I can’t.” 

“I’ll ask him. Now that he has met Miss Dallas, there 
is no reason why he should object to adding Miss Rath- 
bone to his list of acquaintances.” 

Apparently he had none ; for the following Sunday 
the doctor appeared at the mission, was introduced to 
Lucy, and by her to Jimmie McCloud. Dr. Thorne did 
not have much success in extracting information from 
Jimmie. 


126 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


“ I hain’t seen Teddy since one Sunday he came here 
and peeked in, but wouldn’t go upstairs. He didn’t 
want to come no more. Miss Rathbone said we was to 
wash our faces, an’ he never liked to wash his. No, I 
don’t live round here no more. We moved up town 
about two weeks ago. O’Brien’s aunt don’t live here no 
longer, either.” 

That was all. Teddy might be in Timbuctoo for all 
Jimmie knew of his whereabouts. The doctor was made 
pretty sure, however, of the fact that his Teddy and 
Lucy’s had the same identity. The former had told him 
he was running away from Sunday-school when he ran 
into himself with such a bump. 

The question now was, to find the boy. 

“Put an advertisement in the paper,” said Lucy. 

“A capital idea,” answered Clyde. “ But, can the 
little fellow read ? ” 

“After a fashion,” was the doctor’s reply. “ He has 
been a newsboy, off and on.” 

“ Do you think he will be likely to see it ? ” 

“ Yes, I think so.” 

“ In what papers would you put the notice? ” 

“1 would try the ‘ Examiner ’ and the * Call,’ and per- 
haps one or two others.” 

“Well, I will. And perhaps, Lucy, you will get your 
father to act as our agent, and have the boy call at the 
bank.” 

That is how, when Teddy was selling the morning edi- 
tion, two days following the above conversation, his chum 


teddy’s flight. 


127 


drew his attention to something in the column of 44 Per- 
sonals.” 

44 Here you are in an ad,’ Ted,” he said. 44 P’raps 
yer rich uncle has died, and left yer a million.” 

“Lemmesee.” Teddy drew the paper toward him. 
He looked at it for a second, and then said : 

4 4 Say, O’Brien, you read it. My eyes ache some to- 
day, and I forgot my specs.” 

A broad grin overspread O’Brien’s face, but he com- 
plied with Teddy’s wishes. 

44 4 Teddy Daly will hear of something to his advan- 
tage by communicating with L. Rathbone, No. — Pine 
Street, this city. ’ ’ ’ 

44 That ain’t me.” 

44 Why ! Ain’t your name Teddy Daly ? ” 

44 No. I ain’t no Paddy.” 

If O’Brien had not been a good-natured youth, he 
would have resented this slur upon his birth. As it was, 
in consideration of their long friendship, he refrained 
from taking notice of the remark. 

44 What is your name ? ” he asked. 

44 C’rectly, an’ ’cordin’ to law, it’s Edward Dale. No 
Daly about it, an’ I only lets people call me Teddy ’cause 
it’s short, an’ no nonsense in it.” 

44 Say, little feller, yer talk mighty big fer a lad of yer 
size. How old are yer? ” 

44 ’Leven, next birthday.” 

44 Now, Ted, I’m nearly twelve, yer know, an’ old 
enough to advise yer for yer good. Yer just go an’ see 


128 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW, 


that there cove this afternoon. I’ll bet that ‘ad ’ was 
meant for a feller about your own size. P’raps the feller 
’ll give yer a dollar, anyway, like the pretty lady did ; 
an’ then we can go on a bender.” 

With the memories of his late taste of refining life, 
Teddy was loth to follow his companion’s advice. The 
only concession he could be induced to make was : 
“P’raps I may look in there to-morrow. I’ll see about 
it.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 


IN MR. RATHBONE’S SANCTUM. 

Nothing shows so narrow and small a mind as the love of riches ; 
nothing is more honorable than to despise money, if you have it not; 
if you have it, to expend it for purposes of benevolence and generos- 
ity.— C icero. 

B EGINNING on Monday morning until Saturday 
noon of the same week, Lucy Rathbone’s father 
reveled in an atmosphere of gold and silver, coupons 
and bonds. He was always revolving schemes in 
his head as to how he could add to his already large 
fortune. Upon the morning after the O’Brien had drawn 
Teddy’s attention to that advertisement in the paper, 
Mr. Rathbone had received a visit and a communication 
that had upset him considerably. It is all very well to 
be the father of a pretty daughter, but extremely unpleas- 
ant when one is visited at his office by a suitor for said 
daughter. Especially is it disagreeable to one’s feelings 
when the suitor is by you considered exceedingly unsuit- 
able. With Lucy and Clyde it had been a case of mutual 
interest, if not love, at first sight. Clyde had not dis- 
covered the state of his feelings for some time. When 
he did so, however, he would have, like Viola, “ let con- 
cealment prey upon his damask cheek,” before he would 
have told his love, remembering his precarious income 

I 129 


130 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


and Lucy’s position in life. But one cannot always de- 
pend upon one’s self-control in such matters. Clyde felt 
that he really must try his chance with the dear girl. 
Having an old-fashioned sense of the duty of children 
and parents, he called first upon Mr. Rathbone, to “de- 
clare his intentions ” and gain his consent. 

The banker’s greeting was most cordial before he heard 
the young man’s errand. Clyde had always been one of 
his favorites among the list of family callers. To the 
artist’s modest request, which surprised him to the last 
degree, he assumed his most freezing manner, and an- 
swered : “It cannot be.” Though he talked a good 
deal more after that, it all amounted to the same thing — 
a decided negative. 

Desmond went away quite dejected. If he had only 
made sure of the young woman’s answer first, they might 
have done the “ Young Loc’ninvar ” act. Now, he would 
never know whether she loved him ; for his honor forbade 
him to ask. He went home and painted away despe- 
rately at a portrait of Laura Macy he was doing for Mr. 
Murdock. His work put life into him. After all. he 
was young and she was younger. In time the stern pa- 
rent might relent. 

You may understand that the banker was not in the 
pleasantest mood when Teddy Daly saw fit to walk down 
Pine Street, and inside the door of the bank, inquiring 
for Mr. Rathbone. 

“A special interview is requested,” said the smiling 
clerk who carried Teddy’s message to the private office. 


















































MMgggBII 



How the Gardens Grew. 


Page 131. 











IN MR RATHBONE’s SANCTUM. 131 

“Who is it?” asked Mr. Rathbone, a vision rising 
before him of another penniless suitor, whose presump- 
tion he must nip in the bud. 

“A little boy, who says he wishes to see you in regard 
to an advertisement in yesterday’s paper.” 

“Oh, the advertisement!” Mr. Rathbone looked 
annoyed. It was only at Lucy’s earnest solicitation that 
he had allowed his name and address to appear in the 
newspaper notice. He had not fancied for an instant 
that anybody would answer it, and his bad humor was 
consequently not improved in the least. 

“S.iow him in,” he said to the clerk, and Teddy en- 
tered. Such a subdued, sober Teddy ! Quite unlike 
O’Brien’s saucy chum of yesterday. A bank generally 
impresses one’s littleness upon him. 

“ Is your name Teddy Daly? ” asked Mr. Rathbone. 

“ Some folks calls me that.” 

“ But is it your name?” The banker disliked any 
approach to trifling. 

“ Not eggsactly,” returned Teddy. He believed with 
the novelist, that “to give information is always indis- 
creet, but superfluous information is a crowning indiscre- 
tion,” which he must by no means commit. 

“ Well, what is it ? ” Mr. Rathbone was growing 
impatient. What a foolish action he had committed 
when he put his name to that advertisement ! 

“I ain’t goin’ ter tell yer, unless yer lets me know 
why yer wants the information,” replied the boy. He 
did not much fancy the looks of the banker. Dr. Thorne 


132 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


was the only “nob” Teddy had fraternized with for at 
least three years. That brief experience with Miss Rath- 
bone did not count. 

“I don’t know myself, but I guess it will be some- 
thing good for you. I’ve no doubt nice clothes and a 
home are at the bottom of it. It is a boy named Edward 
Dale my friend is looking for. Some one said, by adver- 
tising for one Teddy Daly, the other might be found. 
So please tell me at once what you know. ’ ’ 

Teddy chuckled in his sleeve. They would never find 
Edward Dale, if he had anything to say about it. He 
had tasted all he wished of the sweets called nice homes 
and clothes. Rags and liberty w r ere his preference. 
Therefore he gave only ambiguous answers to all the 
banker’s questions. It is true these were not of the most 
searching nature, nor did Mr. Rathbone understand in 
the least how to address a lad of Teddy’s calibre. As a 
detective, or a student of boy character, Lucy’s father 
would never have gained a prize. Besides, he grudged 
the time given to this affair, and considered that two 
trying interviews in one morning were a little too much. 

He finally, inwardly denominating the street lad a 
bare-faced liar or an undoubted fool, acknowledged his 
failure in this case. 

“ Here,” he said, handing Teddy a quarter — Lawrence 
and Charlie had initiated him into this mode of pacifying 
human bipeds of the schoolboy species — “ you aren’t 
the boy, I see. If you ever hear anything definite re- 
garding such a person, take your news to this address.” 


IN MR. RATH BONE'S SANCTUM. 133 

He handed Teddy Dr. Thorne’s address, thereby, if he 
had only known, thwarting any chance of the scheme’s 
success. Mr. Rathbone was in complete ignorance of 
the fact that Teddy had been a resident of the doctor’s 
home for some weeks, and had run away therefrom. All 
he understood was that John Dale was prosecuting his 
search for a long-lost brother, and that one Teddy Daly 
was suspected to know the child’s whereabouts. Lucy 
had persuaded her father to be the one to question the 
boy, being confident that the name of a perfect stranger 
might draw the lad to confide in him sooner than that of 
a better known person. 

“Yes, sir,” answered Teddy, accepting the quarter 
with alacrity. “Thanks.” 

“ I suppose you will go to work and double that in the 
course of the day,” suggested the banker, rising to open 
the office door for the departing guest. 

“ No, siree-Bob,” returned the lad, surprised at such 
a suggestion. “ Me’n O’Brien ’ll have a spread outer 
that. We believe in gettin’ the good of our money 
while we has it, not savin’ it up for our old age, nor 
doublin’ it like a swell capitalist. Good-bye.” 

That evening, at the dinner table, Mr. Rathbone told 
his family about the boy and his conversation with him. 
He did not mention the other visitor he had received, 
nor the purport of his visit. 

“ This Teddy seemed a bright little lad, in some re- 
spects,” he said, “but totally lacking in others. He had 
no idea of the value of money.” 


134 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


“ Do you call that lacking in a sense ? ” inquired Lucy. 
“ Perhaps he never had any to know the value of.” 

“I gave him a small tip, with which he proposes to 
give himself and f O’Brien’ a ‘spread,’ ” answered her 
father. 

“O’Brien? Did he say Jerry O’Brien? I just be- 
lieve it was my Teddy, after all. He said some such 
funny things when I asked him questions,” observed 
Lucy. “And he lived once with a boy named O'Brien.” 

“ He didn’t mention his chum’s Christian name,” 
said Mr. Rathbone, while Lawrence contributed his quota 
to the subject. 

“ I bet this fellow was the boy who lived with Dr. 
Thorne. He was awfully slangy, and looked like the 
one papa described.” 

“ Then he could hardly be John Dale’s brother,” ob- 
served Mrs. Rathbone. “ Because Clyde assures me 
that John Dale comes of a good family, and except for 
falling under that terrible habit’s influences, he was al- 
ways a gentleman. Evidently, this lad has never been 
under any refining influences, else he would not use such 
peculiar language.” 

“ Oh, mamma,” explained Lucy, while the boys looked 
at their mother, to see if she had not been uttering sar- 
casm, “just think of the slang Lawrence and Charlie 
use, and imagine what they would be, did they not have 
you and papa to keep them a little bit straight.” 

“ But this boy’s grammar is off too,” said Charlie. 

“We have no proof that he has ever had any school- 


IN MR. RATHBONE’S SANCTUM. 


135 


ing. His mother died when he was only seven, Dr. 
Thorne told me, and poor Teddy earned his own living 
after that.” 

“I wish Clyde would come in,” said Lucy. “ He 
could give us points on how to go to work in this dis- 
covery. I’m afraid Teddy never will turn up now, since 
you let him know that Dr. Thorne was interested in this 
search, papa.” 

Mr. Rathbone did not second the motion regarding 
Clyde, but he eyed his daughter more closely than usual. 
Seemingly, the look satisfied him and laid his suspicions 
at rest. Lucy spoke of the artist as if he was a friend 
or a brother ; nothing more. However, he considered 
it safer to draw the subject back to the boy yclept Daly. 

“ This child appears to have a decided distaste for civ- 
ilization,” he observed. 

“That is just the way it always is,” said his wife. 
“The lower classes don’t care to be raised. No one 
seems tp go to work in the right manner to convert 
them.” 

“ Like the blind man who received a tract upon ‘ Per- 
nicious Literature,’ and the lame man who had one upon 
‘The Evils of Dancing.’ One ought to examine the 
subject- intelligently before trying to reach the masses.” 
This was from Lucy. 

“I don’t know what to think about it,” said Mr. 
Rathbone. “ Some say, give the poor education ; some 
say, give them money. But I think they ought to earn 
their own money, and then educate their children.” 


136 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


“ To spend it,” added Charlie. 

“ That’s what you think you’re going to do,” answered 
his father. “ For my part, remembering the philosophy 
of my boyish visitor this morning, I begin to think one 
had better spend his money himself, and get some of the 
good out of it. There is no knowing whether we shall 
live to need it in our old age. If we give it away, as 
you say, we are liable to make great mistakes in the way 
in which we bestow it.” 

‘ ‘ How about laying up treasures in heaven?” asked 
Lucy. 

That was bringing the question within too narrow a 
compass. The family changed the subject. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


Laura’s Christmas gift. 

Better trust all and be deceived, 

And weep that trust and that deceiving, 
Than doubt one heart wiiich, if believed, 
Had blessed one’s life with true believing. 


— Frances Anne Kemble. 



AURA’S health began to give way under the system 


-L' of work she had planned for herself. Her nature 
was so sympathetic that every child’s woes she made her 
own. She visited all her charges at their homes, helped to 
find better paid work for many of the fathers and mothers 
who supported the families, and busied herself in every- 
thing that could add to their good, material and spiritual. 
Finally, she grew so thin and pale that Mr. Murdock was 
alarmed, and called in a physician to take a look at his 
ward. The learned man evidently understood his duty ; 
for Laura found a substitute for her class, and was packed 
off to “ Crags ” to recuperate, a dear old lady friend of 
Mr. Murdock’s acting as companion. 

Laura had not in the meantime forgotten to impart to 
her guardian her discoveries in regard to John Walton — 
Dale. Mr. Murdock said he would investigate ; but he 
was a slow man, believed in doing things leisurely, and 
besides, considered that there was no immediate danger 


137 


138 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW.' 


of John Dale’s departing from their ken. Laura had been 
domesticated at “ Crags ” for a week before her guardian 
thought to bestir himself in the matter. Then he wrote : 

“ Dick Morrison is going to take a vacation, and thinks 
of spending it at Fern Ridge. Why not have him make 
the inquiries you wish ? I am coming to lunch with you 
to-morrow, and will bring Dick with me. You can by 
then decide how much you had better tell him of the 
story. I thought you would prefer his aid to giving the 
particulars to another detective.” 

This letter gave Laura much to think over. It seemed 
as vague as a dream, that period when she had been the 
Reverend Richard Morrison’s - right hand. From what 
she had seen during Nan’s visit at Lucy’s, the clergy- 
man’s daughter had slipped easily into her former place. 
Then Mr. Morrison purposed spending his holiday at 
Fern Ridge. There could be no doubt that Nan was the 
attraction. Well, it was all right. How foolish she had 
been to trouble herself about a bit of gossip. She had 
not believed for a minute what Mrs. Lewis had hinted in 
regard to Morrison’s wooing her fortune. Why need she 
have cared what they said about the reason for her own 
attraction for church work ? She knew now that it was 
untrue. She loved her kindergarten labor for itself, and 
the other was not so dissimilar. Yes, let him come. She 
was sure of herself, and sure she had not mistaken his 
feelings in regard to Nan. He would find John Walton 
for her, and she would be an heiress no longer. 

They came. It was such a pleasant day for them all. 


Laura’s Christmas gift. 


139 


Mr. Murdock talked to his old friend, Laura’s compan- 
ion, and Richard with Laura herself. They had so much 
in common to talk about, these two young people. They 
chatted on about their several proteges, until the time came 
for Laura to tell her companion the service she required 
of him. She thought it best to explain unreservedly her 
reasons for finding John Walton’s heir or heirs, and con- 
necting John Dale with the former. 

“It is odd, is it not?” questioned the young man, 
when she had finished. “You are looking for an heir, 
and Dale is looking for a brother.” 

Laura had not heard about it ; but when Morrison had 
explained, and mentioned the little boy’s name, she 
said : 

“ It appears to me that I have heard the name before. 
He chummed with a boy named Jerry O’Brien, you say ? 
Jerry’s sister is one of my pet pupils.” 

“ Then you may be the means of giving to Dale, if not 
a fortune, a brother.” 

“ I may come to see you when I return from Fern 
Ridge?” asked Richard, when Mr. Murdock and he 
were bidding good-bye to the two ladies. “You will be 
anxious to know at once if Dale is he whom you seek.” 

“Of course you must come,” answered Laura. To 
herself she added : “ And let me know of yours and 
Nan’s happiness.” She hardly understood why the 
thought should give her such a dull pain in her heart. 

It was Christmas Day when Morrison came to redeem 
his promise. Laura had just mounted her horse and was 


140 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


going for a long, solitary ride over the hills. There was 
no need of a groom’s attendance at “Crags.” 

“ Don’t dismount,” said Morrison. “You have an- 
other horse, have you not? Let me accompany you.” 

Ned, who was in hailing distance, was called, and 
speedily had the steed ready for the minister to mount. 

The two rode along slowly for a little way, that con- 
versation might be rendered possible. 

“ Did you find him? ” 

“ Yes. There is no doubt that the son of your father’s 
friend is John Dale. I questioned him carefully. Every 
circumstance in both his parents’ lives tallies with those 
you previously discovered.” 

“ Did you tell him? ” 

“ Not all. Only that he would learn something to his 
advantage by communicating with Mr. Murdock.” 

“Will he do so?” 

“ He will be in town as soon as he can make arrange- 
ments to leave his affairs at Fern Ridge.” 

“ How kind you were to see to it all. I should never 
have remembered those details.” 

“ It was nothing. By the way, did you lay your hands 
on Teddy yet? ” 

“No, he has disappeared. Jerry hasn’t seen him for 
days.” 

“ How disappointing ! I was thinking so much of 
what the find would be to Dale.” 

Laura started her horse into a gallop, and both riders 
were silent for the necessary space in which it took their 


laura’s Christmas gift. 


141 


steeds to settle down again. Laura wondered why the 
other did not tell her of his engagement. He must know 
she would be interested to hear about Nan. She resolved 
to stir up his confidences at the first opportunity. As 
for Richard, he had fallen into a serious mood, and did 
not feel in the least like conversing. How provoking, 
that those horses would stick so close to each other ! 
They must have been used to going in harness. This 
very thought, which struck them both at the same time, 
gave Laura the opening she wished. 

“ Isn’t it romantic, the way these beasts act?” she 
said. “I never noticed it before.” 

“They are carriage horses, are they not?” asked 
Morrison. 

“ They must have been once,” she returned, “ though 
we only use them for riding.” 

“They would go well together, I think.” 

“Yes,” was all she could find to say. 

It seemed to Morrison that his opportunity had come. 
He conquered his timidity by a desperate effort. 

“ Could we go together, Laura? ” he asked, reining his 
steed in as near the other as he dared. “ I wish we could 
always go in this way, side by side. I love you, Laura ! ” 

There ! It was out, in spite of his timidity. 

Laura looked up at him. He was just a little higher, 
on horseback, than herself. Her brilliant eyes expressed 
a glad surprise. 

“Love me?” she said. “Why, I thought it was 
Nan.” 


142 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


“ Nan ? Miss Dallas ? We have never been anything 
but friends. But you — why, I loved you when I first 
saw you. You were reading an essay. Don’t you re- 
member ? ’ ’ 

“ Yes, and Lucy thought Mr. Desmond the handsomer 
of the two men who came late.” 

“ Did you too ? ” Dick was not full of vanity, but 
any man likes to hear the opinion of the girl he loves re- 
garding first impressions. 

Laura blushed. 

“ No. I told Lucy I was going to join her church, 
because I liked young ministers,” 

“Do you? I wish you would love one , instead,” 
said Morrison. 

Her answer was spoken quite softly, but it seemed to 
satisfy him. 

As they turned their horses homeward, Laura said : 

“ I am so sorry to think I can’t endow you with my 
wealth. A man like you could do no end of good 
with it.” 

“ You need not give it up if you don’t wish. Dale 
doesn’t know.” 

She looked at him almost fiercely. Then her face soft- 
ened as she saw the smile on his. 

“You couldn’t mean it. You haven’t a mean thought, 
I know.” 

“ Dearest, you are more than a fortune to me. It is 
for you I regret the lost luxuries.” 

“Nonsense. Your love is more than any luxury to 


laura’s Christmas gift. 


143 


me. And John Walton — I can’t call him John Dale any 
more — is sure to put the money to the best use.” 

As he said good-bye that night, Morrison exclaimed, 
fervently : 

“ Thank God for my Christmas gift.” 

“ Thank God for mine,” added Laura. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


AT FERN RIDGE. 


If little labor, little are our gains, 

Man’s fortunes are according to his pains. 


— Herrick. 


EDDY did not appear at Dr. Thorne’s, so word of 



JL failure had to be sent to those waiting for tidings 
at Fern Ridge. John did not give up, either in his 
prayers or in his hopes. Nan was still sanguine. 

“ The farther away he tries to keep himself, the surer 
I am that we shall find him,” she said to John. “ And 
with that face, I am sure he is your own little brother.” 

John could not help partaking of her faith, especially 
since all his own hopes pointed in the same direction. 
There was something very sweet to him in the thought 
that Nan Dallas was as much interested in finding his 
little brother as he was himself. All along his upward 
climb the Dallas family had been his encouragers, and 
Nan had raised his thoughts higher than all. She had 
led him on to study books that he had considered beyond 
his reach ; she had opened his mind to the most beautiful 
truths ; and she had shown him how to the beloved of the 
Lord nothing is impossible. He never thought for an 
instant to what these lessons might tend. If he had, he 
might have gone away at once. Not that he was one of 


144 


AT FERN RIDGE. 


145 


those empty-headed coxcombs who fancy that every girl 
who looks at them twice is in love with them ; no, but 
Dale was too honorable to wish to link his life, with its 
horrible past, to that of any pure girl. He loved Nan, 
but she must never know it. In truth, Nan thought of 
him as a dear brother, nothing more. 

It drew near to Christmas time. Nan, her mother, 
and Jennie Lacy were all busy getting presents ready for 
the Christmas trees at the kindergarten and the Sunday- 
schools. John drilled the star pupils in the music and elo- 
cution classes. They intended having a splendid Christ- 
mas festival. Every heart felt the pure joy that should 
always be present at this hallowed season. A few days 
before this entertainment was to take place, John received 
a letter from Clyde Desmond. The latter wrote : “We 
need you, my dear John, to personate Santa Claus at our 
mission festival. Will you come? You’re just the man 
for us, and the little change to town air will do you good.” 

John presented the matter for Nan’s consideration. 
She thought he ought not to hesitate for a moment. 

“ Go, by all means,” she said. “ You know their fes- 
tival does not take place until two days after Christmas, 
and ours is the day before. And I tell you what to do 
when you return. Bring Dr. Thorne back with you, to 
stay over New Year’s.” 

Nan and the society-hating physician had become 
great friends, with Uncle Sam as the medium of no 
end of interesting chat between the two so dissimilar. 

Dick Morrison came up to spend his holidays at Fern 
K 


146 HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 

Ridge, and accomplished the errand put upon him by 
Mr. Murdock and Laura. Dale’s presence in town thus 
seemed in the light of a necessity. 

John decided to go. “ Who knows? ” said Mrs. Dal- 
las ; “you may be able to find that little boy, yourself.” 
Perhaps that was one reason why John was so easily per- 
suaded to leave the Fern Ridge people for a brief space, 
even without his promise to the minister. 

Before the grand entertainment came off, Tom, Dick, 
and Harry Dallas called upon John one day in his office, 
seemingly brimful of a grand secret. He was the only 
one of whom they made a confidant. Upon Christmas 
morning, among the many gifts received by Mrs. Dallas, 
was a large paper parcel, tied with white baby ribbon. 
With the eyes of all the family fixed upon her — only 
ihree of the circle knowing the parcel’s contents — she 
opened it. It was a long scroll of parchment, rolled and 
tied with a blue ribbon, a number of verses in silver, Old 
English lettering, appearing upon its face. 

“ Such a pretty idea ! ” exclaimed Nan. “ Whose is 
it?” 

“ From Tom, Dick, and Harry. A merry Christmas,” 
read their mother, from a caid enclosed. 

The boys could keep in no longer, “ Read the verses, 
mamma ! ” they cried, excitedly. “ John Dale did the 
lettering, but we made the poetry. ’ ’ 

The fond and proud mother complied, and here they 
are. Those who dislike amateur efforts, may skip, and 
go on to the next chapter. 


AT FERN RIDGE. 


147 


THE CHRISTMAS TIME. 

By Tom, Dick, and Harry. 

Christmas is the time of all the year, 

When hearts should be happy and full of cheer. 
For Christ was born on this blessed day — 

He came to wash our sins away. 

The streets are gay with Christmas greens, 
And all around are happy scenes. 

The wagons hurry through the street, 

Filled with toys and things to eat. 

The streets are lighted up so bright, 

You would not know when it is night.. 

In the butcher’s shop, a turkey big, 

Is hung beside a fat, plump pig. 

A toy-shop stands across the way, 

’Tis always full, both night and day ; 

Dolls peep from the windows, great and small, 
Everything else, from a top to a ball. 

And passing from this brilliant store, 

We see the church, with open door, 

The bells are ringing — eight — nine — ten — 

“ On earth peace, good will to men.” 

Out on the air the carols go, 

Sounding sweet and soft and low, 

Of angels filling the great blue sky, 

Of shepherds keeping their flocks near by. 

Many are coming to church to-night, 

To hear the glorious words of light ; 

Of the Child who was in a manger born, 

And the wise men, who came at earliest dawn. 


148 HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 

It is Christmas eve, and the children, five, 

Are merry and joyful, with fun are alive. 

They hop off to bed, and hang up their stockings, 

Ears open to listen for Santa Claus’ knockings. 

Christmas Day is here at last, 

The Christmas dinner will soon be past. 

We eat our fowl, and sauce so rare ; 

Pudding too, and pies, are there. 

After dinner, to church we go — 

Children with mamma; Jane with her beau. 

The tree is large, and bright, and green, 

And children’s faces all serene. 

Words of joy we all shall sing, 

Thoughts of kindness shall we bring ; 

We’ll clap our hands in great delight, . 

And long remember Christmas night. 

The Christmas festival long will last — 

Soon our Christmas will be past. 

But Christmas east, or Christmas west, 

Where peace and love> are — that is best. 

“ O — h ! ” cried Bebe, drawing a long breath. 
“ Wasn’t that beautiful, mamma? I say, read it again. 
Its a lot nicer than ‘ ’Tvvas the Night Before Christ- 
mas ’ ; and to think that Tom, Dick, and Harry did it 
all themselves ! ” 

It was a long time before the boys lost their reputation 
at home and at school of being “sure enough” poets. 
Their father, perhaps, privately doubted their being great 
geniuses, but their mother believed in their powers for- 
ever after. How very nice it is to think there is always 


AT FERN RIDGE, 


149 


somebody — be it a mother, a bosom friend, or a sister — 
who believes in our crudest efforts. Fathers and brothers 
have a habit of scoffing ; but while we have the sympa- 
thy of the gentler sex, what recks their jeers ? 

After the Fern Ridge holiday festivities had lapsed 
into the past, John Dale started for the city. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


TEDDY MEETS SANTA CLAUS. 

“ All things come to him who waits.” 

M ANY, many times had Teddy felt the gnawings of 
hunger since the day he and O’Brien had eaten up 
Mr. Rathbone’s quarter. In the holiday season, people, 
as a rule, are so busy shopping that they cannot stop to 
buy a newspaper. O’Brien, being larger and a year 
older than Teddy, secured the most of the trade. Being 
partners, one would have thought this would have been 
an equal benefit; but, by*and-by, O’Brien began to 
think this rather a one-sided arrangement. 

“You ain’t earnin’ nothin’,” he said to Teddy. 

This was the day after Christmas. That day had not 
meant much to the two lads. They had sold four 
papers ; that was all, save that Jerry had dined at his 
aunt’s in the afternoon. He had not been allowed to 
take a guest with him, else he might have invited Teddy 
to accompany him. 

“ Well, I can’t do no better,” returned the little lad, 
to the other’s reproach. 

“ Then we’d better dissolve partnership. Joe Snipes 
is anxious to go in with me, an’ he’s got capital. 
S’ posin’ we ’grees ter part, Ted? ” 

150 


TEDDY MEETS SANTA CLAUS. 


151 


“Jest as you say.” Teddy made a bold attempt to 
look dignified ; it was a dismal failure. One can’t feign 
dignity when he is hungry and cold, unless his blood is 
entirely blue. 

“Good-bye, O’Brien.” 

“Bye-bye, Ted. Here’s your share of the tin.” 
O’Brien held out a dime. 

“I don’t want it. Keep it yerself,” said Teddy, 
walking off with his hands shoved down deep in his 
ragged pockets. How bravely he tried not to cry. But 
the tears would come; he was only ten years of age, 
remember, and his only friend had just deserted him. 
All that day he wandered about. He ran an errand for 
a baker, who gave him a couple of doughnuts and a 
piece of pie. After eating these , he felt better, and 
enjoyed his long night’s rest in a convenient doorway. 
The next day it rained, but he had no shelter to seek, so 
he followed his occupation of the former day, roaming 
about. In the course of his travels, about nightfall, 
he happened into the neighborhood of Clyde’s mission 
school. The place was lighted up quite brilliantly; 
Teddy could not imagine the reason of the display. 

“ Hello, Ted ! Where’ve you kep’ yourself all this 
time?” A lad of his own age slapped him upon the 
back, with hearty, if somewhat rough greeting. 

Teddy recognized Jimmie McCloud. 

“What’s going on in there?” he asked, pointing to 
the hall opposite. 

Jimmie explained that they were to have a festival — 


152 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


whatever that was — at the mission, with cakes and candy, 
and every child was to receive a present. Teddy had 
half a mind to accompany Jimmie when he heard this 
alluring announcement, but his ardor was dampened 
when his friend explained that no one was to have a gift 
who had not been there for at least two Sundays before- 
hand. “ And to-night’s the festival,” concluded Jimmie. 
“ Sorry for you, Teddy, but come next Sunday, won’t 
you? We’re going to have a picnic in the summer.” 
After announcing this entrancing bribe, he disappeared 
up the stairs of the mission school. 

By-and by Teddy went across the street and stood 
close to the doorpost. A figure rushed by him and up 
the stairs, taking them two at a time. Teddy saw the 
door open, a hand outstretched, and heard the words, 
“ At last ! The children were becoming impatient.” 

“For what?” Teddy wondered. His curiosity at 
last becoming overpowering, he ventured up the steps and 
peeped in at the door. A kindly looking young gentle- 
man — Mr. Morrison, if Teddy had known — opened it 
wider, and, taking the little boy’s hand, said, “ Come 
in! Come in.” Then Teddy was taken to a seat on 
one of the front benches, and there was Jimmie McCloud, 
“ one vast, substantial smile,” as he made room for his 
friend by his side. 

“ How’d you get here? ” he whispered. 

“That man made me come in,” answered Teddy, 
pointing to the benevolent features of the Reverend 
Dick. 


TEDDY MEETS SANTA CLAES. 


153 


“ That’s the minister,” explained Jimmie. 

But who was that who now appeared upon the plat- 
form? A jolly old fellow enough, with his twinkling 
eyes, ruddy cheeks, and long, silvery beard. 

“Santa Claus,” was Jimmie’s stage aside to his com- 
panion. 

Then St. Nicholas’ counterpart took out his bundles, 
and called the children’s names, one by one. At last 
all had received presents save Teddy, who could hardly 
expect one under the conditions. All at once, the pretty 
lady w r ho had been his teacher upon that memorable 
Sunday, went up and whispered something to the 
minister. Then the minister called up Mr. Desmond, 
and Lucy and the tw r o men held a conference, seemingly 
very animated. In the meantime, Santa Claus distrib- 
uted cakes, candy, apples, oranges, and nuts. 

The conference of the three over, Mr. Morrison called 
Santa Claus to him, and they had a chat of some 
minutes. Then Santa Claus retired from the room, 
while Mr. Morrison stepped to the front of the platform 
saying: “I’m going to tell you all a nice story. Who 
wants to hear it? ” 

Numbers of hands, sticky and otherwise, were raised, 
among them Teddy’s. He was always fond of hearing 
stories. What boy is not ? 

“ Well, once upon a time, there was a boy who left his 
parents and came to this city. He met with many 
adventures. That is the way Mr. Morrison began. 
He told incidents in John Dale’s life, then he branched 


154 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


off and told about the little brother who was left behind 
in New York ; how he finally came also to this western 
country ; how he met Dr. Thorne, and how he finally 
ran away. Then he further told of the young man’s 
search for the family he had left in the East, and how 
they had gone away, nobody knew where. Still he did 
not despair. He kept on praying, and trusting that he 
would at least find his little brother Edward. 

“What do you suppose happened,” concluded the 
minister. “ That young man was asked by a friend in 
this city to come down from his country home and take 
part in an entertainment. At that very place, his lost 
brother was among the children. The queer part of it 
was, that neither knew the other. 

“ Children, what would you say if I told you that this 
is the very entertainment I am speaking of? And here 
is the young man — the story’s hero,” he added, as John 
Dale appeared, in the very doorway through which Santa 
Claus had disappeared. 

“I must see the lad, now,” said John, quietly. 

“ You shall have him in your arms, directly,” answered 
the minister. 

During this story, Teddy’s eyes had never left the 
speaker’s face. When he stopped, after that last ques- 
tion, and the young man entered, the lad could keep 
silent no longer. To Jimmie’s unbounded surprise, he 
rose from his seat, and going toward the minister, 
exclaimed, “ I’m that little boy you told about. My 
name is Edward Dale. Where’s Jack? ” 


TEDDY MEETS SANTA CLAUS. 


155 


John Dale opened wide his arms “ Here he is,” he 
exclaimed. With those two faces, so much alike in spite 
of the difference in their years and conditions, no one 
could doubt the relationship. Besides, Teddy could tell 
John all about his father and mother and their former 
home in the East. No one else could know these facts, 
or have any interest in them. The fact was proved later 
on. Just now John Dale took Teddy as an answer to his 
earnest prayer. His heart was ready for the boy’s com- 
ing. As for Teddy, he was this time ready for civiliza- 
tion, exemption from hunger and cold being too potent 
arguments, even with liberty and independence upon the 
opposite side. 

Thus Teddy met the good old Christmas saint, and in 
him found a brother. No more lookings for a living that 
was hard to find, no more shiverings, and no more loss 
of food for Teddy Dale. One of the first things his 
brother gave him was a good supper. 

“ My,” he said, as the warm room and the nourishing 
food made their influence felt. “ My, that’s good, Jack. 
I didn’t expect anything like this a little while ago. It’s 
just like a story.” 

“You’ve had a pretty hard time, haven’t you, my 
boy?” was his brother’s answer, as he looked tenderly 
on the little chap. 

“Yes, and since my partnership busted I didn’t just 
know how to make out.” 

* ‘ How was that ? ’ 1 

And then Teddy told him all about Jimmie O’Brien, 


156 HOW THE GARDEN’S GREW. 

and the helpless condition he was in when he saw the 
lights of the mission school. 

“Well, no more want now, my boy,” was the older 
brother’s comment, as he patted the boy’s head in a 
fatherly way. 

“ I got a present, after all,” observed Teddy to 
Jimmie McCloud that evening. “And I guess it was 
bigger’n, better’n yours — a brother ! ” 

These words meant more to Teddy than he could well 
know. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


APPROACHING FRUITION. 


Where there is much light, 
There is much shade. 

— Goethe. 



ORE was to come. The following evening, John 


J- was sitting in Dr. Thorne’s office, with Teddy on 
his knee, and all the adventures of both were being re- 
tailed. Teddy’s quaint phraseology made his doings 
more interesting than if related in dictionary terms. It 
is a mistake to fancy that grammar, like poetry, is inborn. 
Pronunciation must be learned before practice makes 
perfect. Even a peer of the realm could not spell cor- 
rectly, were he not taught to do so, and then very fre- 
quently he might miss it. 

“There was a lady I seen once,” said Teddy, “who 
gave me a dollar. She asked me to come to Sunday- 
school, not the mission, but a big one, where the boys 
and girls wear nice clothes. I told her I didn’t wanter, 
’cause I knew how stiff they was. But she gave me the 
dollar, just the same.” 

The bell rang, and Mr. Morrison entered, accompa- 
nied by a lady. Espying the latter, “That’s her,” said 
Teddy. 

“ Who? ” asked the others. 


157 


158 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


“ The one that gave me the dollar.” 

It was Laura Macy. She had come to tell John his 
good fortune. In the morning’s interview with Mr. 
Murdock, even the most minute of the lawyer’s scruples 
in regard to the identity of John Dale as Walton’s son, 
had vanished. 

“You had better think twice about giving him the 
whole of your father’s property,” he advised Laura. 
“ Walton’s could not have been half of what it is worth 
now. ’ ’ 

“ It must be all, or nothing,” said Laura. And Mor- 
rison concurred in his opinion. 

At first, John couldn’t believe it. 

“ I remember, now,” he said, “my father often said 
in his letters that my mother must keep her eyes open 
for ‘ a gude time cornin’.’ But when we heard of his 
death, mother felt that the end had come.” 

“ She married again.” 

“Yes, she did. But I fancy she meant it as much for 
my good as for her own. He was Teddy’s father.” 

That last observation, they understood, they were to 
take as a palliation for the man’s conduct toward his 
step-son. 

“ I was always a wild lad,” added John. “ They said 
there was nothing good in me. My mother alone al- 
ways loved me through everything. Yet I ran away.” 

“ Perhaps your soul was chastened by the trials you 
went through.” 

“Indeed it has been. Alas ! the scars remain.” 


APPROACHING FRUITION. 


159 


John was thinking of Nan. To most men, money 
glosses all errors. He did not look upon it in that light 
himself ; but somehow, he began to hope that he might 
win her, some day. 

“It is all yours,” said Laura. He started, almost 
thinking her words an answer to his thoughts. Recol- 
lecting himself, he answered: “No, I cannot take it. 
You and Morrison know far b( tter than I to what use to 
put such wealth.” 

“ Read this,” she returned. “ Then answer.” 

She showed him her father’s letter, and his resolution 
wavered. 

“We must consult with Mr. Murdock,” he said. 
“ This is not a question one can decide at a moment’s 
notice.” With this Laura had to be satisfied, and she 
and Morrison took their leave. 

After Teddy had been wafted into the arms of Mor- 
pheus, in the same pretty bedroom he had formerly oc- 
cupied when a sojourner at the doctor’s, John and his 
friend resumed their confidences. 

“ I can thoroughly believe in God’s goodness,” said 
the doctor. “ And it is love that has wrought the trans- 
formation.” 

“ Love ? ” John looked surprised. 

“ You wouldn’t have suspected it, would you ? ” The 
doctor looked as if the notion was hardly familiar to 
himself. “She is such a dear creature, I couldn’t help 
it. You know her well, Dale — Walton, I mean. Do 
you know, you are my only rival, I verily believe ” 


160 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


John started, but the other did not notice it. “ She says 
she loves you like a brother.” 

There was little doubt whom the doctor meant, but to 
make assurance doubly sure, John asked : 

“ Who is the fair lady of your choice ? ” 

“ Couldn’t you guess ? It is Miss Dallas. Poor crea- 
ture that I am, I have not yet asked her.” 

“ He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small, 

That dares not put it to the touch. 

To gain or lose it all,” — 

quoted John. 

“ I know, but you see, old man, I’m not in the least 
sure of her feelings toward myself. We are the best of 

friends, but well ! We have been acquainted so little 

while.” 

“ There is a plant called coreopsis, whose significance 
is * love at first sight.’ ” 

“ What of it? I don’t know but what it was my case 
— but hers ? It could not have been, in that crowded 
car.” 

‘ ‘ Better try your luck, doctor. Go in and win. You 
have my blessing.” 

Seemingly the blessing was of value. For the doctor 
went up to Fern Ridge the next day, and upon his return 
went at once to John. 

“ You are the best adviser a man ever had,” he said. 
“ I took your advice, and she is mine. But say, John, 
I’m more than half inclined to be jealous, already. She 


APPROACHING FRUITION. 


161 


talked about you the whole time that I was there, and in 
such terms.” 

Knowing that to Thorne he owed a debt of gratitude, 
John could not grudge him the treasure he had won. 
He was glad he had never told Nan his love, and had 
thus spared her the pang of refusing one for whom she 
really felt a deep regard. One understands the comfort 
Teddy gave John now. The latter stayed in town long 
enough to settle up all business with Mr. Murdock re- 
garding the Macy estate. Upon one point he was firm. 
He would accept but half of the large fortune offered. 

“ There has been sufficient atonement,” he said. 
“ Were my father and yours here, they would be satisfied. 
Not knowing we were rich, we never missed the money. 
My life would have been far more full of temptation had 
I possessed it.” 

The lawyer was satisfied, and Laura had to be. Per- 
haps she was glad at times, knowing how much wiser she 
had grown, and to how many good uses she and Dick 
could put her wealth. 

Lucy did not get her pupil back, nor did the mission 
gain Teddy as an addition to its ranks. John took the 
lad to Fern Ridge, where Nan and everybody made so 
much of him that there was danger of his being spoiled. 

“ You can’t spoil his grammar,” said John, with a 
laugh. “ But you may his theology.” 

Indeed, the terms Teddy had picked up in the street 
clung to him for a long time. Tom, Dick, and Harry 
added quite a number of new words to their vocabularies, 

L 


162 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


gleaned from the transplanted town youth. They liked 
him at once, and so did Bebe. Nan enjoyed watching 
the unfolding of his soul. For three years past the lad’s 
teachings had been of the worst ; but somehow, the in- 
fluences of his first seven years, watched over by a con- 
scientious mother, had kept him from growing entirely 
bad. Mischievous he was, truly > but all boys are that, 
more or less. 

He was so happy with John. Dr. Thorne wrote up to 
the latter that he wanted Teddy to come and stay with 
him awhile. “ I’ll make a doctor of him,” he explained. 
The little lad would not go, however, nor did John wish 
to part with him so soon. The older brother was 
meditating on a plan, which he did not at once make 
known. 

In the meantime, Laura Macy became Mrs. Richard 
Morrison. Their wedding was a grand affair, in the 
First Church, with all the paraphernalia of bridesmaids, 
ushers, flowers, and favors. Laura had wished it to be so, 
when Dick, man like, had pleaded for a less public 
ceremony. 

“ There are so many people who never see weddings 
at all, that is, big ‘‘swell” affairs. I wish every poor 
creature I ever saw to enjoy the sight. Weddings are 
splendid things, Dick, dear, you know.” 

So they invited all their friends ; and no end of re- 
marks were made, of course. 

“ Everybody knew Laura Macy would do something 
odd,” remarked Jean Douglas. “ The whole thing was 


APPROACHING FRUITION. ] 63 

managed about as curiously as one could fancy. Kinder- 
garten kids in the best seats beyond the ribbon, and 
those old almshouse women of Mr. Morrison’s in among 
the relatives. Horrid, I call it.” 

The young couple did not care, but serenely went their 
way. To the big reception came all their friends, young 
and old, rich and poor. Every one wished them “ God 
speed” when they departed for “Crags,” where they 
would spend their honeymoon. 

Lucy Rathbone was the maid of honor, and Dr. Thorne 
stood up with Morrison. Clyde had been asked to offi- 
ciate in this capacity, but he would not, giving some 
laughing excuse. The fact was, he could not bear to be 
best man where Lucy was maid of honor. 

“ It brings the matter too near home,” he explained, 
to himself. 

His good time was coming, however. Mr. Rathbone’s 
heart, not in reality a flinty one, had been much softened 
during the holiday season, and when these wedding pre- 
parations were going on. He noticed Lucy’s pensive 
air as she busied herself in her household labors, and 
fancying he saw a change in her countenance from its 
usual bright appearance, he relented. Clyde was deli- 
cately shown that he might now venture where he had 
been told not to tread. 

Clyde and Lucy had not been close comrades for some 
months. He knew the reason he stayed away from the 
Rathbones’, or at most paid a formal call once a fort- 
night. 


164 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


“Desmond ain’t half the fun he used to be,” sighed 
Charlie. 

“An awful dig now,” added his brother. “Work- 
ing day and night on his old pictures.” 

Lucy, in silence, concurred with the boys. Mr. Rath- 
bone waited for an avowal, and confided only to his wife. 
Desmond was timid in regard to attempting a renewal of 
the old friendship. 

In the early summer, another wedding gave Clyde the 
chance he craved, of meeting Lucy and pleading his 
cause. In the early summer Nan was married to Dr. 
Thorne. Clyde and Lucy stood up with them. 

“ Look out,” said the former. “ Don’t do it again. 
i Thrice a bridesmaid, never a bride.’ ” 

“I don’t care. I never mean to marry,” returned 
Lucy. 

“ No ? ” quizzed Clyde. It always was such a delight 
to tease Lucy Rathbone. “ Case of blighted affection ? ’ ’ 
“Not at all,” indignantly. “ I intend to devote my 
life to missionary work among the poor of our city.” 

“ What of that? Aren’t two heads better than one in 
such a task? — four hands, than two ? ” 

“I suppose so,” answered his companion, gravely. 
“ So few men, though, care for that sort of thing.” 

“ Who are the exceptions ? ” 

“Well, Dr. Thorne, for one ” 

“He’s married,” said Clyde, with mock gravity. 
“ Too bad. He won’t do for you.” 

“Nonsense! I wasn’t thinking of that.” 


APPROACHING FRUITION. 


165 


“ How about John Walton ? ” 

“ He is a good man. And, by the way, why was he 
not here to-day?” 

“ He has gone East, to see about some property left 
to Teddy by an aunt.” 

“ I’m so sorry. Nan thought as much of him as if he 
had been her brother.” 

‘‘Very likely.” Clyde had surmised somewhat of the 
truth of the case, but he did not voice his fancies to his 
companion. 

“See here, Lucy,” he said. “Haven’t I a mission- 
ary spirit ? ” 

“I never thought about it — much,” she answered. 
“ Why, yes ! Of course you have.” 

“ Well, what’s the matter with me ? ” 

“ Nothing, as far as I can see. You look healthy 
enough. ’ ’ 

“ I didn’ t mean that. How would I do as a husband ? ’ ’ 

“Very well — for Jennie Lacy. She is wild to be ‘en- 
gaged.’ ” 

“Provoking creature!” exclaimed Clyde. “Why 
will you persist in misunderstanding my meaning ? Will 
you marry me, Lucy Rathbone ? ’ ’ 

Doubtless her answer was all he could have wished, for 
they looked very happy all the rest of the day. So did 
Mr. and Mrs. Rathbone, later on. “ What if Clyde is 
an ‘ ineligible ? ’ said the former, in reply to a remark of 
his wife, “I’d rather have Lucy herself again, than going 
about moping all the time.” 


166 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


u I don’t think she ever was unhappy,” returned Mrs. 
Rathbone. 

“I didn’t think it, I knew\t ,” answered her husband 
— a case on record where the down-trodden man had the 
last word. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


BLOSSOMING TIME. 

Some people are always grumbling because roses have thorns. I 
am thankful that thorns have roses. — Alphonse Karr. 

N O, John did not appear at the wedding of Nan Dallas 
and Doctor Thorne. While he did not regret one 
whit of the latter’s happiness, still he was human, and 
his heart was sore. Eastward he went, some weeks 
before the wedding, accompanied by his little brother, 
who had become so dear to him that he felt as though it 
would be wrong for them ever to be separated. The 
business that called him East having been settled, the 
two brothers went abroad. Dale, the elder, was Walton 
now. He considered it but right that he should assume 
his father’s name, especially since through John Walton 
had come his fortune. Nan had no suspicion as to the 
reason of John’s not being present at her marriage, nor 
had the doctor. ' The two had always been so fraternal 
in their relations, that only the searching eyes of Clyde, 
sharpened doubtless by the then hopelessness of his own 
suit, had penetrated John’s secret. 

Nan was delighted to hear that the best part of the 
“ sandwich” was not to remain a “love-lorn female.” 
Did you ever see a happy bride who considered others’ 
lives complete unless on the road to Hymen’s altar ? In 

167 


1G8 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


after years, it may sometimes happen that she will say, 
shaking her head wisely, to such of her old friends as 
have chosen a maiden’s lot : 

44 Well, dear, you don’t know how thankful in many 
respects you should be that you didn’t marry. You have 
had a much easier time, with more fun in it, by remain- 
ing single. You really can’t conceive how many 
troubles a wife has to bear.” But if she really loves her 
husband, be he good, bad, or indifferent, she will add : 
44 Notwithstanding matrimony’s drawbacks, I am so glad 
I married ! ” 

Seeing that nearly every section laments a preponder- 
ance of women over men in the census, there must 
always be a certain number of single women. But a 
spinster’s life, no matter how lovely, how full of joy and 
happiness it may be, seems not quite perfect. A well- 
laid garden, trim and neat, it still forever lacks the 
crowning point of luxurant beauty. Even Miss Alcott, 
one of the sweetest 44 old maids” who ever lived, 
acknowledged this. 

It was fully two years before John Walton and Edward 
Dale turned their steps homeward. They had traveled 
through all the countries of the Old World, and after 
showing Teddy some of the wonders of the New, John 
purposed placing “the youngster” at school, and 
settling himself down to the work he had mapped 
out. 

That old thought of his, kept alive by Nan’s encourag- 
ing words, to write something that would bring the eyes 


BLOSSOMING TIME. 


169 


of the world directly upon the evils that lay beneath its 
surface, evils of which he could write from his own 
knowledge, had grown upon him while abroad. During 
the two years of absence from his home — Fern Ridge he 
ever regarded as a home — he.had not been idly “ seeing 
the sights ” like the ordinary tourist. No, he had looked 
deeply into everything, especially the moral life of the 
great cities, and he had not found, as many casual 
visitors to the Pacific Coast have averred, the California 
metropolis to be “the wickedest city in the world.” 
He knew that its newness and cosmopolitan population 
caused sin and vice ever to be uppermost where in older 
places it is glossed over or hidden entirely. Reforms 
already in progress would soon purge the evil atmos- 
phere, and being young in sin as in its birth and growth, 
there was every reason to believe that in time no city 
would become more moral. 

Dr. Thorne had given John letters to a number of 
great London men, journalists and reformers. These 
gave him many of the points he needed for his proposed 
work. 

He wrote, and his articles were published in New York 
and in his own city. They excited much comment in 
the reading world. No people are more ready to give 
reformers an ear than Americans. The trouble is, we 
listen to so much advice without heeding what is of true 
value, that as a rule it practically amounts to nothing, or 
at least very little. But Walton’s words lived in many 
hearts, and h? thanked God that he had been shown the 


170 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


way to make his past experience and present wealth of 
the most value. 

Before starting out upon his further contemplated 
work, and before putting Teddy at school, he visited his 
home. Fern Ridge had changed considerably, and con- 
tinually for the better. Nan was no longer an inmate 
of the Dallas parsonage ; as the doctor’s wife, she pre- 
sided over his city home. John and Teddy visited their 
friends in San Francisco, of course. When the former 
saw Nan, he felt that it was all right, “all for the best,” 
he said to himself. She was in her proper place as the 
physician’s wife, and what a continual help she was to 
her husband as a spiritual guide. To Lucy, now Mrs. 
Clyde Desmond, and already making plans for the future 
of the tiny babe nestling in her arms, Nan still acted as 
counselor. 

“ I ought to be the happiest of Telemaques,” said the 
artist’s wife, one day, with two such mentors as yourself 
and Clyde continually at my elbow.” 

Clyde’s pocket was much fuller these days, as his fame 
grew apace. He might, indeed, have become a nabob 
had he desired, but with both hands he and Lucy dis- 
pensed benefits, and never ceased “ lending to the 
Lord.” 

“They are quite as happy,” observed Grandpapa 
Rathbone, one day, as he held the cooing Clyde, Jr., in 
his arms. “I begin to think I would have been a far 
happier man had I been as generous as Clyde and Lucy.” 

“ Don’t belie your good deeds, papa,” deprecated his 


BLOSSOMING TIME. 


171 


daughter. ‘ ‘ Clyde says you are making up for lost time 
nowadays.” 

The Reverend Richard Morrison was no longer assist- 
ant, but the pastor of his church. While generally 
ministers’ wives are subject to the united criticisms of the 
entire congregation, which quite too frequently are of 
the adverse order, Laura was not treated to these. In 
the first place, she had been known to them all for many 
years, and in the second place, her oddities being all of 
a pleasing nature, everything she did was consequently 
voted “ peculiar, but so nice.” Each of our friends in 
his or her own field went on sowing and watering the 
good seed. *No child even was considered too small or 
insignificant to reach. “ Inasmuch,” continued the 
motto of “ the sandwich.” 

The Desmond Mission School was no longer held in a 
hall. A pretty, though tiny chapel had now reared its 
head and walls at the self-same corner where Teddy had 
stood one Sunday deliberating before he ran away, and 
thus made the acquaintance of Dr. Thorne. John went 
one evening to give “a talk ” in the chapel. The place 
was crowded, and his words were eagerly listened to by 
the workingmen and their wives. 

“ That’s what I like,” remarked one of the latter, at 
the little sermon’s close. “ There ain’t no words there 
but what a body can understand.” 

“ That’s so,” said another. “ An it wasn’t too long. 
I didn’t see anybody was failin’ asleep over it.” 

Morrison overheard the words, as he and John paused 


172 


HOW THE GARDENS GREW. 


to shake hands with those in the congregation who 
claimed the privilege. 

“A good criticism upon my own efforts,” he said. 
“ I’ll make my sermons shorter hereafter.” 

“ St. Paul understood his congregation’s humors, I 
fancy,” returned John. “ Did you ever stop to think 
how every word tells in Paul’s epistles ? Nothing super- 
fluous, but every sentence full of meaning. It was the 
same with our Saviour’s sermons.” 

“ A thought worth pondering,” answered the other. 

• 

One more scene and we may leave our friends. No 
tale can be finished until its hero’s life comes to a close. 
A good life is never ended. 

It was at “ Crags,” where Laura and her husband had 
come for a few days. John Walton was with them. 
Laura, with tender touch, was “fussing” over the root 
of a transplanted wild flower. 

“Do you know, John,” remarked the minister, “see- 
ing Laura do that reminds me of yourself.” 

“ In what way? ” 

“I always think of you as a rare plant. The gardener 
unfortunately, did not treat you rightly, and you were 
sent off into a — well, let us call it a field. Then Des- 
mond discovered your grand possibilities, almost vanished 
away ; Thorne was called in to aid in the transplanting ; 
up in Fern Ridge you had the best of care. Then came 
the result of it all — yourself, as you are now.” 

“A beautiful fancy,” said Laura. “ Yet I think you 







































































































































































































































How the Gardens Grew. 

, Page ]72. 























BLOSSOMING TIME. 


173 


made a mistake in saying John was planted wrongly at 
first. It was through his misery then that he gained the 
experience necessary for his life’s fruition.” 

“ Our Gardener never makes mistakes.” 

They both looked at John. His face seemed glorified 
for the moment. Then a dreamy look came into his 
eyes. 

“ I shall be satisfied when I behold the King in his 
beauty. That is fruition,” he said. 


THE END. 














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